Opening Chords
by ZosiaDetroit
Summary: How do you stay in-tune when the song suddenly changes? When a chance brush with enchantment alters the course of his life, the young Fflewddur Fflam struggles to find balance between his own nature and the responsibilities of a crown he never expected to wear. Multi-chapter prequel to "The Truthful Harp."
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Prydain and all of its canonical characters are the property of Lloyd Alexander; no copyright infringement is intended. Original characters and text are mine (for good or ill... I hope they don't fall too far short of Alexander's masterful work). _

* * *

**Chapter One**_  
_

* * *

_Sword training_ _again_. Prince Fflewddur groaned inwardly. Sword training really ought to have been exciting—and it certainly _was_ better than lessons in history, or legal precedents, or etiquette—but all of the compulsory safety measures made it feel too much like child's play. Although pell training put a real sword in his hand, the wooden posts at which he hacked away hardly made inspiring foes. Sparring did give him a live adversary, but the wooden practice swords they used were decidedly unheroic. Neither type of training satisfied Fflewddur's itch for a true test of arms—a real chance to prove his mettle.

It was to be sparring at the moment. The circle lay before Fflewddur and his three brothers: a patch of bare ground already trampled and pockmarked by the boot prints of countless previous matches. Cadwallon, the hawk-like young war leader of Caer Flam, stood off to one side. His chiseled countenance was serious, and his ice-blue eyes caught every movement within thirty paces.

"Your turn, Fflewddur," he called out, gesturing the lanky, tow-headed youth toward the sparring ring. "Try your hand against Gethin… and _do_ try to keep your wits about you this time, would you?"

Gethin smirked as he stepped forward. Like his twin, Gwythyr, he was two years older than Fflewddur and a fair bit more muscular, if not quite as tall. Fflewddur didn't relish the prospect of the match. Gethin fought dirty as often as not, and took every victory as an excuse to mock his younger brother. But he would have no such chance this time! Fflewddur was determined to beat him soundly—preferably by sending him on a humiliating tumble into the muck.

"Come, Fflewddur… what are you waiting for?" Gethin taunted. "Afraid you'll land on your arse again? Frightened like a little baby hare?"

Fflewddur clenched his jaw and took a firmer grip on his weapon. He would not let his brother best him this time, mentally _or _physically. He threw back his bony shoulders and boldly stepped forward to make the first thrust. Gethin parried the blow deftly and returned the attack. The skirmish was on. A surge of energy spurred Fflewddur's imagination, evoking all of the battle epics he knew by heart. Fflewddur grabbed the reins of that thought and let it carry him away…

In his mind's eye, the muddy training ground stretched into a vast battlefield surging with warriors. The clash of arms and cacophony of battle cries raged in the greatest din he had ever heard. All around him, blades flashed and steeds reared in a tumult of furious action. Suddenly, the press of warriors parted. Fflewddur saw the mightiest warrior of all standing before him, sword and shield raised, poised to attack. He had no doubt this was King Pwyll himself, lord of seven cantrevs, now turned to treachery and in league with Arawn, King of Annuvin, land of the dead. It was he, Fflewddur, who must face the legendary warrior now. A Fflam to the rescue! He would strike the vile traitor down in the name of righteousness and the House of Don and…

A resounding thwack across Fflewddur's shoulder jolted him back to inglorious reality.

"Oy! Focus!" Cadwallon shouted. "Get your head out of the clouds, boy, before it gets knocked from your shoulders!"

Gethin smirked again, tossing his sword from one hand to the other as Fflewddur rubbed his smarting shoulder.

Gwythyr, standing behind Fflewddur, took the momentary pause to throw a taunt into the ring. "I bet he was daydreaming about that milkmaid we saw him with yesterday," he teased. "Tell me, will the wedding be held in the barn or the pasture? I want to make sure I dress properly for the occasion…"

Fflewddur blushed red from the tops of his ears to the tip of his long, pointed nose. He whirled around and lunged at Gwythyr, taking a vigorous swipe at his head.

"Hey now—none of that," Cadwallon said, rushing in to separate the two before the situation devolved into an all-out brawl. "Save the blows for the actual sparring." The war leader cuffed Gwythyr on the ear and shook his head disapprovingly at Fflewddur.

Standing off to the side with arms crossed, Ffynnon, the eldest of the brothers, rolled his eyes and sighed with impatience. "You waste your time, Cadwallon," he called out. "Those two will never stop goading Fflewddur, and he will never leave off daydreaming. You might as well teach roosters not to crow, and a scatterbrained goose to wield a sword."

"Hmmph," Cadwallon grunted. "Be that as it may, it is my duty to make the attempt. Your turn," he added, nodding Ffynnon forward. "Go against Gwythyr and see if you can't smack a bit of humility into him along with some sword-skill."

Ffynnon obliged, while Fflewddur slunk back and plopped down indignantly on a stump. Milkmaid indeed! He _ha_d been focusing on combat—granted, not the particular battle at hand, but his mind had still been in the right category of things. It wasn't _his_ fault that training sessions were so dull, and he needed to liven them up with a splash of imagination. Entirely unfair! Totally unjustified! He'd show them next time… They'd rue the day they crossed Fflewddur Flam Son of Godo! He nursed his wounded pride by indulging in a delightful vignette of himself sending both Gethin and Gwythyr sprawling with a flurry of agile swordsmanship.

* * *

Cadwallon was not the only one irked by Fflewddur's lack of attention to his training. The subject came up later that evening, as many times before, when the king and queen had retired to their chambers for the night.

"Did Cadwallon mention how the boys' training went today?" asked Queen Anwen, who was bent over her embroidery beside the hearth. "Better than last time, I hope…"

"If only!" cried King Godo. The tall, wiry, red-haired king was pacing back and forth in agitation. "As usual, Ffynnon was the only one taking matters seriously. Gethin and Gwythyr took it as yet another opportunity to poke fun at Fflewddur, who played right into it with more of his woolgathering."

"Oh, dear," Anwen said with dismay. "Not again…" She jabbed her needle through the cloth with a little more force than necessary.

"Yes, _again_. They are nothing if not consistent—I will grant them that." The king sighed heavily and flopped down onto a large chair across from Anwen. His brow furrowed. "I don't know what we are going to do with Fflewddur… I honestly don't. He is clever enough. But he will learn precious little of _anything_ if he cannot learn first how to _focus_."

"Do not judge him too harshly," said Anwen. "He desperately wants to succeed and to impress you—and he does try, in his own way. His heart is in the right place."

"True, but his head seldom is," Godo said despairingly. "Now, you know I like a grand story as much as the next man, but there is a proper time and place for them. That boy spends far too much time conjuring up fantastical tales when he should be focusing on the very real studies in front of his nose."

"Well, he certainly did not get that tendency from _me_," Anwen said with a teasing smile. "You grew out of it; he likely will too."

Godo sighed again and slumped further into his chair, looking much like an under-stuffed scarecrow. "He is already _sixteen_!" the king groaned. "Great Belin! A Fflam is forbearing, but how much longer can we afford to wait?"

"Be patient," Anwen reassured her husband. "I will speak to him about it… again."

* * *

The following morning broke cool and clear into a lovely early autumn day. The crisp air was mostly still, and broad swaths of high clouds softened the afternoon light—ideal conditions for the archery practice Cadwallon called.

Despite the stern discussion about diligence and civility that Anwen had with her sons that morning, the brothers remained true to form. Gwythyr and Gethin were making a competition of things, taunting and trying to outshoot each other—often with more speed than accuracy. Ffynnon was aloof and methodical, sending arrow after arrow right into the bullseye. And Fflewddur, as usual, was struggling, to keep both his attention on the task and his arrows on-target. His first few rounds flew wildly in every direction except the one he intended. One arrow even managed to ricochet off a boulder and land right back at his feet. After much grumbling and glancing about to make sure his failures went unnoticed, Fflewddur eventually began to hit the target consistently—but consistently well above center.

"Hmmph. I'd have the knack of this in no time if it weren't for that blasted wind," he muttered to himself, though nary a breeze was blowing. "And if the sun weren't in my eyes." He squinted indignantly up at the cloud-streaked sky.

Ffynnon noticed his brother's frustration. He looked on critically while Fflewddur shot another, equally unsuccessful, round.

"You're not accounting for distance," Ffynnon remarked at last. "The arrow follows an arc, not a straight path. You must adjust for your range or you will hit the target at the wrong point in the curve. Here—watch closely."

Ffynnon took several paces forward, nocked an arrow to his bow, took aim, and let fly. Fflewddur's eyes traced the arrow's path as it swept a rapid arc through the air and hit the target—several inches too high, just as his own shots had done. Ffynnon walked back to his previous position, aimed along the same sight-line as before, and shot again. This time, the arrow struck dead center.

"See? You were too close to the target for the way you were aiming. Try again," Ffynnon urged. "Either move ten paces backward and aim as before, or sight a little _below_ the bullseye."

Swallowing his pride, Fflewddur did as Ffynnon suggested. This time, there was a satisfying thunk as the arrow pierced the target just a hair off-center.

"There. Much better," Ffynnon remarked with a smile. "I'm surprised Cadwallon never showed you that before," he added wryly.

"Oh… yes… It must have slipped his mind," Fflewddur said with a shrug.

Ffynnon smirked a little, but said nothing.

* * *

Several days later, Fflewddur finally got a reprieve from his lessons. The dispensation had hardly left Cadwallon's mouth before Fflewddur was out of the castle gates and heading for the forested hills. The blend of pine-scented air and dappled afternoon sunlight stirred his heart so much that he began to run, purely for the pleasure of it. He sprang over the needle-covered earth, leapt over and around fallen logs, and jumped to reach up and brush his hand against low-hanging branches. With his long shanks practically flying, he felt as free as a hawk on the wing.

Paying more attention to the beauty of the scenery than the path ahead of him, Fflewddur rounded a stout tree trunk and collided with something solid but soft.

"_Ooof_!" He grunted, stumbling backward and just barely catching his footing in time to avoid falling. When he glanced up to see what he had hit, his jaw fell instead.

Standing before him, looking both slightly puzzled and mildly amused, stood three of the fairest young women he had ever seen. The one with whom he had collided was tall and voluptuous, with hair the color of polished copper. The second was more willowy, with rosy cheeks and tresses as fair as a sunbeam. The third had skin as pale as moonlight and hair as black as a raven's wing. All wore gowns whose color appeared to shift and change as the fabric swirled around them.

They appeared to be traveling somewhere, but were rather ill-garbed for the journey. The blonde maiden walked barefoot; the black-haired one lacked a cloak; and the third's unbound hair was so long that it trailed and tangled in the underbrush behind her, picking up an assortment of leaves and twigs along the way. Where had they come from? And where could they possibly be going? Fflewddur couldn't imagine they were traveling without escort, yet he hadn't seen anyone else nearby.

"Forgive me," Fflewddur said, blushing slightly. "I don't know how I missed seeing you there. Are you all right?"

The copper-haired woman smiled, white teeth flashing. "Quite all right, my dove—although you might try running with your eyes open next time, lest you run into something more disagreeable than we three."

"Speak for yourself," grumbled the dark-haired maiden, who stood sullenly with her arms crossed. "You recall what happened to the last creature who collided with me." Absentmindedly, she began picking her teeth with her little fingernail, in a decidedly unladylike fashion.

"Sshhh," the blonde said to her companion. "He is not a wild hog, and doesn't deserve such foul treatment regardless. You are always taking unreasonable offense at the slightest transgressions." She turned to Fflewddur. "Don't mind her," she said behind her hand. "She is only disgruntled because she forgot her cloak and the sun has been in her eyes all day without it."

Fflewddur shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. There was certainly something odd about these three, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Best to be chivalrous, he supposed.

"Well… if it is a cloak you need… here, take mine," he said. He unpinned the woolen garment and offered it up to the black-haired maiden. "It isn't in the best condition, I'm afraid… I've spent one too many nights sleeping outdoors in it—trying to get away from our dreary castle to stargaze, you see. But it's some of the finest fabric in all of Prydain," he boasted, though the wool was no more remarkable than any other. "And it does have a nice deep hood that should serve you well."

The woman grunted as she took it into her pale hands, but Fflewddur thought he saw the faintest whisper of a smile play across her lips. Judging from the prickly demeanor she'd displayed thus far, he figured that was as much thanks as he could hope to expect.

"There, you see?" said the blonde, toying with the necklace of milky stones around her throat. "He is _much_ more courteous than a wild hog. We do have a long journey still ahead, and that cloak should help a great deal."

"But if you are traveling far, then you yourself do not have all you need," Fflewddur said, gesturing to her unshod feet. "I'm surprised you made it this far without the pine needles turning your feet into pincushions." He bent down and unlaced his boots, pulled them off, and held them out to her. "Use these. They are likely a bit too large for you, but the leather is quite soft and comfortable. And they will surely serve you better than nothing at all."

"How _sweet_ of you!" the maiden crooned, clasping her hands together in delight. A bright smile dimpled her rosy cheeks. "But what of your own tender feet?" she asked.

"Oh, I haven't nearly as far to go as you," Fflewddur replied. "And my feet are as tough as leather anyway," he bluffed, trying not to wince as the dry needles pricked into his soles.

"Such a dear little chick he is," clucked the red-haired maiden. "Bless that tousled head of his!"

Fflewddur blushed again, unused to such attention from one beautiful lady, let alone three. Her comment sparked another thought, though. He fumbled through the wallet on his belt and withdrew a small comb, finely carved from horn.

"I see the underbrush is causing you some trouble," he said to the redhead, gesturing to the leaf-litter tangled in her hair. "Perhaps this would be of some use to you?" He handed her the comb.

"Why, that is _just_ the thing I need," she exclaimed. "How very thoughtful you are! Now I shan't need to call on a flock of weaver birds to help me untangle and tie it all up. But won't it trouble you to be without your comb, duckling?"

"No, no, don't give it a second thought," Fflewddur replied, warming to the role of benefactor. "It would be a shame for hair as lovely as yours to be spoiled by travel. Besides, my own hair is so unruly that a comb scarcely does me any good."

"Well, thank you. That will be most helpful," she replied, taking the comb and tucking it away into the bodice of her dress. "But I am afraid we really must take our leave of you now, though it is a shame to quit the company of such a courteous young robin."

Fflewddur nodded and gave a slight bow.

"Since you have made our journey more comfortable, though" the copper-haired woman continued, "we shall make yours a bit shorter. The sun is sinking quickly, after all, and I am sure a sweet little sparrow like you would prefer to be home in his nest before it grows too dark." She rummaged in the folds of her gown, and drew out a handful of glossy, speckled seeds. "Here—these should be exactly what you require," she said, pouring them into Fflewddur's palm.

"Uhhh… Why, thank you…" he said, as gracious as he was perplexed and curious. He peered at the seeds in his hand and prodded them lightly with his finger. They looked ordinary enough—but why, then, would she be offering them to him? No, on second thought, they _did_ seem to radiate a mild warmth, and his palm tingled slightly beneath them…

The blonde maiden giggled. "Oh, he doesn't know what to do with them, silly," she chided her companion. "I shall explain. Those are enchanted seeds," she said to Fflewddur. "They make anyone who eats them so swift and vigorous that they can cover twice the distance in half the time, with a quarter as much effort—or thereabouts. It is not a _precise_ thing, you understand." She giggled again. "Only take care not to eat them all at once, or you may find yourself running so quickly that your heels cannot keep up with your toes."

Enchantment! So _that_ was the secret behind these mysterious ladies! The idea simultaneously frightened and thrilled Fflewddur, setting his nerves buzzing. He had never encountered any sort of magical object before, let alone three enchantresses. Now _this_ was a story worth telling! Fflewddur was suddenly very glad he had treated the three women cordially. He shuddered to think what might have transpired otherwise. He'd heard far too many tales…

"Hmmph," snorted the black-haired maiden from deep within the hood of her new cloak. "Are you sure you want to give those seeds to a boy who _already_ darts about like a startled rabbit?"

"Now, now… Whether he uses them wisely or unwisely is not our concern; you know that," the copper-haired maiden replied. "He has done us a service, and those are a fair reward. Besides, the line between wisdom and folly is not so clearly drawn. What seems wise in its time often leads to ruin later on; and what at first looks foolhardy can turn out well in the end." She smiled at Fflewddur, but it was bittersweet, tinged with as much pity as mirth.

Fflewddur gazed in wonder at the three young women. But were they young, truly? He no longer was so sure. The more closely he studied their faces, the less relevant time seemed to them. It was like looking at the smooth, unblemished surface of a river stone and knowing it had taken thousands of years to form.

"Well," said the redhead at last, "we had best be on our way now, starling, and so should you." She hiked up the hem of her dress and turned back in the direction they had been heading.

"Wait! You never did tell me who you are," Fflewddur called after them. He had been so caught up in the oddity of the meeting that he hadn't noticed the maidens never introduced themselves. In fact, he didn't remember them calling each other by name either.

The redhead merely chuckled. "Names? Why, you may use any names you like my duckling," she said. "Since we likely won't be seeing you again—and chances are slim that you would recognize us if we do—it hardly matters what you call us, or what we call ourselves. Names are such fickle things, anyway; they can change from one breath to the next. It really is no use trying to pin them down. Why, you might as well try to tie down the wind—and that is no easy feat, as we ourselves know from experience." She turned away from him once more. "Farewell, dear fledgling!" she called over her shoulder. "Fly safely home!"

The three maidens walked away, treading so lightly that their footfalls scarcely made a sound. Fflewddur stared after them for a while in wonder before turning toward home. When he glanced back over his shoulder just a few moments later, though, he saw to his surprise that the women had vanished entirely. Not one bent leaf or broken twig gave any sign of their passing. Had he only dreamed the encounter? Had he hit his head against a tree trunk and addled his wits? Fflewddur reached into his wallet and felt the enchanted seeds. No, it was all real enough. And tempting as those seeds were, Fflewddur decided to save them for another time. He'd had a close enough brush with enchantment for one day; there was no reason to press his luck.

* * *

A/N: The intent of this multi-chapter piece is to take a deeper dive into Fflewddur's history, and thereby explore some possible origins for his personality quirks. He is one of my favorite characters from the Chronicles; I only hope I have done him justice here, and manage to entertain a few readers. I haven't written any fiction in a ridiculously long time, so I am likely quite rusty (if I had any skill to begin with). Any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated! All I ask is that you explain your comments—if the writing is terrible, go ahead and tell me so, just please explain why so I can work to improve my skills. Many thanks for reading!

Also, I would like to give a shout-out to CompanionWanderer. It seems our respective head-canons about Fflewddur overlap quite a bit, due to some convergent evolution (e.g. his status as younger sibling to a high-achieving brother, and the resultant psychology of that). She wrote about it first, though, so I want to make sure I give credit for any subconscious/conscious inspiration where it is due. Check out her excellent, very poignant, story "One More Day" ( s/10027266/4/One-More-Day).

Finally, special thanks to my beta-reader MMW. Her feedback was invaluable, and it was an absolute joy spending hours together geeking-out about writing as we refined this story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

To Fflewddur's great disappointment, several weeks passed with no occasion to test the enchanted seeds. His curiosity whined and bit at him like a cloud of mosquitos, but he was loath to squander such a rare gift on some frivolous whim. No, he'd kept the seeds tucked away in the wallet at his belt ever since the chance meeting in the woods, and there they remained, pulsing with latent energy. So his days had passed as always: an uneventful blur from rooster crow to setting sun, filled with Cadwallon's good-hearted but somewhat impatient instruction; dull-as-dust lessons with their chief steward, Baeddan; teasing from the twins; Ffynnon succeeding in every way Fflewddur came up short; and Delyth, the head cook and chambermaid, chiding him for not eating enough and using too few blankets at night.

At long last, though, there arrived a chance to escape the stuffy castle and get some fresh air. Rumors were spreading that the burgeoning conflict with Arawn Death-Lord was spilling into the northern realms. So as a precaution, Godo had decided they should scout the kingdom's borders. He and Cadwallon were covering the southern and western edges, while the four brothers took the eastern and northern perimeter. It wasn't an arduous task, given that the realm was so tiny you could nearly see across it on a clear day. Nevertheless, it was enough to let Fflewddur _imagine_ he was doing something noble and important. He sat tall upon his steed, as if he were the greatest of kings astride the mightiest war charger in the land. The air was chill, most of the deciduous trees had already shed their leafy summer mantles, and the fields were settling in for their winter slumber. Fflewddur surveyed it all with a sharp eye, willing himself to take in every detail and spot any stone out of place.

Gethin & Gwythyr were not so easily amused. Within just a few hours of leaving the castle, they began swerving their mounts in front of each other, jostling for the lead and arguing over who was the swifter horseman.

"Pick up the pace, Gethin," Gwythyr baited. "If you ride any slower, the rest of us will be home before you reach the edge of this clearing."

"Ha! Two pieces of silver says you can't beat me to that dead tree over there," Gethin challenged, pointing to a twisted trunk on the far side of the rocky, heather-strewn expanse.

"Only two pieces? Make it three and I'll consider it," retorted Gwythyr.

Fflewddur's ears perked up and his skin prickled with excitement. Now _this_ was a fitting situation for enchantment-enhanced speed! With the help of those magical seeds, he'd have no trouble outracing his brothers. He could already envision it: racing like a lightning bolt to the finish; seeing his brothers' jaws agape in amazement; proudly claiming for himself—no, better still, magnanimously _turning down_—the silver prize…

"Four pieces says I'm faster than you both!" Fflewddur shouted boldly. "In fact, I'll wager that I reach the tree a full three lengths ahead of you—four, even!"

Gwythyr and Gethin snapped around in surprise.

"On that old nag? Psssh! You couldn't outpace us if we were blindfolded and sitting backward," Gwythyr scoffed.

"If you're so certain of winning, why not accept the challenge?" Fflewddur asked.

"Why would a falcon bother racing a tortoise?" Gethin sneered.

"Would you three quit behaving like quarrelsome little boys?" Ffynnon admonished from the head of the group. "This ride has a purpose, which you've been shirking for the past hour."

"Oh, come now, Ffynnon, don't spoil the fun," Gwythyr said. "We're nearly done scouting anyway. In fact, you should race too—or are _you_ afraid to be bested by a younger brother?"

Ffynnon rolled his eyes in disdain. "I will not be dragged into some reckless, childish competition by your taunts, Gwythyr. Unlike _some_ here," he said with a pointed glance and a nod at Fflewddur, "I know better than to let pride make a fool of me."

"Oh, my humblest apologies, _Your Highness_," Gwythyr replied with a mocking bow. "I should never have suggested that a great prince such as yourself would stoop to such common entertainment."

That barbed comment pricked its mark; Ffynnon scowled and drew up his steed.

"All right. I will race. But only to rob you of another chance for boasting. I am sick unto death of listening to it."

While his brothers continued trading gibes, Fflewddur surreptitiously reached into his wallet and withdrew a few of the speckled seeds. How many should he use? The enchantresses had advised him not to use all at once, but how many would be sufficient? One? Two? Surely a horse would need more than a man… Fflewddur settled on five and reached around to offer them up to his steed. She lapped them up eagerly with her pliant lips.

Fflewddur waited anxiously for some sign that the seeds were taking effect. His brothers lined up side by side, jostling for whatever fraction of a lead they could get without the others noticing. Still, Fflewddur's steed appeared no more special than the lackadaisical mare to which he was woefully accustomed. Was there a time lag between swallowing the seeds and them taking effect? Blast it, he hadn't thought of that… Anxiety pulled at his guts as he took his place at the starting line.

"All right—on a count of three," Ffynnon called out. "One… two… _three!"_

The instant Fflewddur touched his heels to his horse's flanks, she shot forward like an arrow from a longbow, far ahead of the other riders. She was _too_ fast—much, much, much too fast. The landscape whirred past in a smear of color, light, and shadow. The steed's legs churned so rapidly that the sounds of individual hoof-beats blurred into a rolling, thunderous tattoo. Fflewddur fought desperately to hold his seat and rein her in, but she paid him no heed.

Suddenly, Fflewddur saw a craggy boulder looming just ahead in the middle of his path, hulking and unavoidable. There was no time to veer around it, so his horse attempted to leap over it instead. Normally, the old mare would never have been able to clear such an obstacle. Under the power of the enchanted seeds, however, she jumped so high and landed so jarringly that Fflewddur lost his grip and hurtled over her neck. His world upended: the earth was above him and the sky below as he tumbled and crashed violently to the ground. A wrenching pain blazed through his shoulder. He writhed in agony, barely able to catch his breath. The horse hardly slowed her pace, streaking onward toward home.

Aghast, Fflewddur's brothers galloped to his side. Ffynnon reached him first, swung down from his saddle, and rushed to examine Fflewddur's injury. Gethin and Gwythyr looked on in concern.

"No—don't try to move yet. Let me get a better look," Ffynnon cautioned as Fflewddur gasped and struggled to rise.

He drew his hunting knife and cut away Fflewddur's tunic and undershirt to assess the damage. The force of the fall had badly torn the skin over his left shoulder, and snapped his collarbone. Ffynnon winced at the sight of it.

"We will have to tie it up," he told Fflewddur. "You will never manage to keep it still enough otherwise." He hastily pulled off his own tunic, and did his best to fashion it into a makeshift sling.

Together, the twins helped Fflewddur up and into the saddle behind Ffynnon. Fflewddur was so dizzy with pain that he nearly fell right back off the horse again. Luckily, he maintained both his balance and his composure. Seeing Fflewddur's pain and his stoic struggle to mask it, even Gethin and Gwythyr bit their tongues and refrained from teasing him about the fall. The four rode back to the castle, chastened and silent.

* * *

"Great Belin! What happened?" Godo exclaimed when the four brothers staggered back into the castle. "How in the name of Don did you manage _that_ on a routine scouting ride?"

Gwythyr and Gethin stared sheepishly at their boots. Ffynnon glared at them, while flushing nearly as red as his hair. Fflewddur wobbled slightly, still disoriented from pain. He attempted to evoke the stance of a brave, wounded warrior, but looked more like an off-kilter stork with a wing down. Anwen, hearing the commotion, rushed over from the Great Hall. She gasped and appeared slightly queasy when she took a close look at Fflewddur's shoulder.

"Come on… out with it," their father demanded. "How did this happen?"

"His horse spooked," Gwythyr piped up. "A fox ran by and startled it. You know how touchy that old mare of his can be."

"He nearly managed to hold on—quite impressive, really," Gethin added. "But he fell hard, and the ground was rocky."

The king was skeptical. "Fflewddur, is that true?" he asked. "On second thought, don't answer that," he amended with a shake of his head. "Ffynnon, is that the truth of the matter?"

Ffynnon swallowed hard, scowling, but nodded in agreement. Godo sighed in exasperation.

"Well, whatever happened—and don't think for a minute that I believe your explanation—it looks like Fflewddur, at least, has been punished more than enough for it. Anwen, would you please make sure he doesn't faint while I go summon the healer?"

The queen nodded and took hold of Fflewddur's good arm while the long-shanked king stalked off. "Come," Anwen said gently. "Let's get you into the Great Hall, so you can sit down while you wait for Emyr. The rest of you, _please_ make yourself scarce before your father returns. He doesn't need any more vexation today."

* * *

Only a few days later, a small host of plainly-garbed and unheralded warriors arrived at the castle gates. Prince Gwydion himself, the young war leader and nephew of High King Math, led them. The expression in his broad face and green-flecked eyes was grave, and his tidings were grim: despite the best efforts of King Math's forces, the scattered outbreaks of violence incited by Arawn's allies had erupted into full-fledged war. Already, several cantrevs to the south lay in smoldering ruin, with even their youngest and weakest inhabitants brutally slaughtered. Few Cauldron-Born, Arawn's deathless warriors, raised from stolen corpses, had been spotted. The Huntsman of Annuvin, however, were out in force—and with each one slain, the strength of his fell brethren increased in equal measure.

Gwydion was calling upon all kinsmen and allies of the House of Don to take up arms against the forces of Annuvin. As distant kinsmen, King Godo and his sons were to rally at Caer Dathyl, bringing with them all able-bodied men of their realm to join the campaign. Fflewddur would not be among them.

"Great Belin, you're not going to leave me behind?" Fflewddur cried with dismay when he heard the news. "Not when there is finally a chance to prove myself! It's not even my sword-arm that is injured! A Fflam is resourceful! I will tie up my bad arm… I can use a spear or short battle axe instead of a sword… If nothing else, I can see to the horses and the needs of the camp…"

Godo cut him off. "I know you are itching to join the fight, but it would be worse than foolish for you to come already injured."

"But… but… What of Bedwyr Bedryant? He had only one hand and was a legendary warrior!" Fflewddur argued in desperation. "Or what about you, that time you fought off three men when you had an arrow in your side and a broken foot?"

The king looked vaguely sheepish, and Queen Anwen gave a quiet but rather unladylike snort.

"You are no Bedwyr, and would be hard-pressed fighting with two good arms," Godo told his frustrated son gently. "And as for myself… Well… I may have, ah… stretched the truth a little with that tale." He shook his head sadly. "No, it is not to be. I know you would join us if you could. Alas, fate has made the choice for you, and decided otherwise."

The king rested a hand on his crestfallen son's uninjured shoulder. "You must be content to stay and lead the castle guard. In that task, there is no dishonor," Godo reassured him. "Our own stronghold must be protected, lest some upstart cantrev lords begin eyeing it in our absence. Keep Caer Fflam safe," he added with a wink, "and the bards will sing of your feats just as surely as if you had ridden into battle with us."

Fflewddur straightened up and tried to proudly throw his shoulders back despite the searing pain that caused. "I shall!" he said, with far more enthusiasm than he truly felt. "Let them try to storm this castle! They'll find a wounded Fflam more lethal than ten ordinary men!" Inwardly, however, Fflewddur felt like retching from the mixture of pain, anxiety, and bitter disappointment. This was nothing like the heroic adventure he ought to be having.

Godo smiled and gave him one last pat on the arm. "Good. Help keep your mother's spirits up and, with any luck, we will be home again before you have a chance to miss us."

The king turned to Anwen then, and wrapped her in a firm embrace. They stood thus for a long while, as though trying to commit the feeling of it to memory. Godo leaned in and whispered something in her ear, eliciting a smile and a wordless nod. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, then reluctantly pulled away.

The brothers bid their goodbyes in turn. On the surface, Ffynnon's demeanor seemed as resolute as ever, but there was a trace of worry in his eyes as he embraced his mother and Fflewddur one last time. Gwythyr and Gethin had been unusually subdued all day while they gathered up their supplies and weapons. They attempted to squeeze in a last bit of swaggering and jesting as they said their farewells, but the jibes rang hollow and their bravado appeared half-hearted. At last, there was no more—or too much more—to be said. Godo and the three brothers strode through the massive doors of the Great Hall, silhouetted against the bright daylight beyond.

Fflewddur stood looking after them, pensive and tense. Half of him longed to go watch from the ramparts as the warriors rode off, to eke out every last glimpse of them he possibly could. The other half wanted to bury himself within the castle walls and pretend they had not left at all.

"Come," Anwen said to him after several moments had passed. "Watching the door won't bring them home any sooner. Nor will it get you out of your usual lessons with Baeddan." She walked over and steered him around to door on the opposite side of the Great Hall, where the chief steward stood waiting.

"And on the subject of lessons…" the queen went on, with a teasing gleam in her eye. "Here is an important one: do not believe outright _everything_ you hear in your father's stories. That battle you mentioned? An arrow grazed his side and he had a twisted ankle. And it was one rather burly man he fought, not three. So you needn't feel ashamed for not going off to battle with a wounded shoulder."

Fflewddur smiled wanly and headed off for his lessons with Baeddan. He couldn't decide which pained him more: his stinging pride, his aching shoulder, or the prospect of hours spent buried in dusty tomes with Baeddan droning on in the background.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

The next few months felt like the longest and most tedious Fflewddur had ever known. Unable to continue combat training, what with his injury and the lack of any warriors around to train him, Fflewddur had nothing to break the monotony of his lessons in history, governance, and castle management.

Their chief steward was a decent sort: diligent, knowledgeable, trustworthy, and well-intentioned. But he was also the epitome of a stodgy traditionalist, though he couldn't have been much older than his middle thirties. He even looked the part, with his poker-straight posture, lean visage, and prematurely balding head. Perpetual fits of concentration had already etched indelible creases between his brows. Just about any break with convention made him suck in his breath and look as though he'd spotted a passel of hogs wearing festival hats wandering through the Great Hall.

Fflewddur liked him well enough as a man, but chafed under his tutelage. Baeddan would ramble on and on about such things as the most equitable rate of taxation, the genealogy of royal houses, and the proper way to address letters to various classes of royalty, until Fflewddur felt sure he would go mad from boredom. Oftentimes, it seemed Fflewddur expended more energy shifting restlessly on his bench or tapping one foot impatiently than he did reading, writing, or even listening to the information Baeddan presented. This particular day was no different.

"…and unlike that of his father, the reign of King Rhitta was plagued by conflicts and open rebellions, the most notable of which being the uprising of the Eastern and Hill Cantrevs," Baeddan intoned. "And the disagreement that precipitated that rebellion was…?" Baeddan questioned Fflewddur.

Fflewddur gave no answer. Baeddan turned and, to his dismay, found his pupil staring out the casement at the early snowfall on the fields and crags beyond.

Baeddan tried again. "_Ahem_. The perceived injustice that spurred the Eastern Cantrevs to rebellion was…?"

"Uhhhh… Caer Dathyl," Fflewddur mumbled, recognizing only that a question was being asked. His gaze and thoughts were still far away.

Baeddan stifled a laugh at the nonsensical response. "And the color of the sky is…?" he asked in jest, testing just how far off the prince's mind had wandered.

"Wool shortages," replied Fflewddur.

"And the harvest season falls in the month of…?"

"King Mathonwy."

"And the best way to get an errant pupil to _pay attention_ is…?"

"Ummm… gwythaints."

Shaking his head in disapproval, Baeddan strode over to the casement and pulled the heavy wooden shutters closed with an ear-splitting creak. Fflewddur started, shaken from his reverie.

"You will not find knowledge of the early years of the House of Don out in the snow," Baeddan admonished. "This is the history of your own kinsmen, young man. I would think you would have an interest in _that_, if nothing else."

"Hmmph," Fflewddur replied, irritated at being caught daydreaming again. "Why don't you elaborate on the _origin_ of that family connection?" he countered with a mischievous smile. "_That_ history has some spark to it."

Baeddan squirmed visibly. "Scandals of the past are best left there," he said, frowning. "Besides, it sounds as though you already know more than you ought to about that particular… ah… _incident_."

Fflewddur smirked a little at the Chief Steward's discomfort. Yes, he did know the tale. He'd managed to pry it out of Delyth one night after a feast when a splash too much wine had loosened her tongue. She always seemed to know all of the court gossip—even generations-old gossip, as it turned out.

"Your education is of paramount importance," Baeddan continued, shifting away from dangerous territory. "Awareness of the past and understanding of current political matters is critical for someone of your station. Ignorance breeds failure, and failure begets revolt."

"Oh, I _know_ the lessons are important," Fflewddur protested. "But they're so terribly drab and dusty. It would be so much easier to pay attention if they were like the tales that bards tell. Now _those_ stories stir the blood!" Fflewddur's eyes danced as he recalled the last bard who had passed through their realm. He had been humming some of those songs for days afterward…

"The history that inspires those songs is the very same history I am relating here," Baeddan said with some exasperation.

"Then why is it so _boring_?" Fflewddur asked. "I'm not suggesting you alter the _heart_ of the facts, mind you, but you could at least readjust them a little—give them some dramatic flair, you know?"

"Facts are facts, and stories are stories," Baeddan huffed. "You would do well to remember the difference. Know, too, that peace & stability are, almost by definition, unexciting. Yet they are what most people deeply desire. The reigns of the wisest and noblest kings were also, quite often, the most uneventful—_boring_ even, to use your term."

Chastened, Fflewddur slouched in his seat, leaned his head on one hand, and stared sullenly at the parchment before him. "Yes, well, I still say a few colorful details would do wonders…" he muttered under his breath.

Baeddan ignored his pupil's comments and resumed the lesson.

* * *

One afternoon, when Baeddan was rendered voiceless by a nasty cough, Fflewddur managed to sneak out of the castle. A light snow had fallen the night before; the field grasses and dry heather glittered under the clear, pale blue sky. Fflewddur's boots crunched softly through the fresh crust of snow as he meandered down toward the throng of cottages nearby. Close to one homestead on the outskirts of the settlement, he took a seat upon the edge of a low stacked-stone wall and began to wait, shivering under his cloak and humming quietly to distract himself from the cold. Fortunately, before long, he saw what he was hoping for: a short, dark-haired slip of a maiden exited the squat cottage and, milk pails in hand, ducked into the adjacent byre. Fflewddur slid off of the wall and crossed the yard to follow her inside.

"Braith!" he called out in hushed greeting as he poked his head through the doorway.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, nearly dropping her milk pails in surprise. "Fflewddur! Gwythaint's bones, but you gave me a fright! You really should make some noise when you come up behind me like that… You'll startle me half to death, popping up without a sound."

"Sorry," Fflewddur said. "I didn't want to attract attention." He nodded in the direction of the cottage.

"How many times must I tell you, you needn't worry about that?" Braith rolled her eyes. "With seven brothers and sisters, my parents can't be bothered to keep a close watch on me. So long as my chores get done, it makes no difference where I go, or who I see while I'm there. And they've seen you around here before, even if they don't know _exactly_ who you are."

"So you say," replied Fflewddur. "But even so, I would prefer my own brothers didn't catch sight or word of me coming around here—I'd never hear the end of it. I've already caught trouble from that _one_ time they saw me talking to you."

Braith grinned. "Ha! I'd say that's a fair price to pay for my good company," she teased. "Besides, your brothers are away right now, so there's no problem there."

"Yes, but if someone else spots me and word gets back to Baeddan or my mother… I'm afraid I wouldn't be allowed out of the castle at all." Worry creased Fflewddur's brow. "A Fflam is self-sufficient, but I'd rather not lose one of the few friends I have."

Braith's smile faded. "No. No, I wouldn't want that."

She strode over to one of the cows and pulled up a stool. "Well, it's milking and mucking out stalls for me at the moment, and I doubt we'll have any unwelcome visitors in here. So pull up a seat and enjoy the grand view of my own Great Hall," she added with a sweep of her arm. One of the cows huffed, apparently taking umbrage at her sarcastic introduction.

Fflewddur perched on an overturned bucket and watched with some interest as Braith began her task. The stable was a comfortable refuge from the wintry chill outdoors. It was peaceful and relatively warm, albeit somewhat pungent with the earthy smell of livestock and straw. The amber afternoon light fell in a broad swath through the doorway, softly highlighting the dust motes that hovered in the air. The young friends usually preferred wandering through moors and forests to being indoors, but this was a pleasant enough change of pace.

"You _could_ quit staring and come help, you know," Braith quipped after a while. She shot Fflewddur a pointed glance over her freckled nose. "The sooner I finish my chores, the sooner our time will be our own."

"Me?" Fflewddur asked, startled.

"No—one of the other people sitting around this stable," Braith said, rolling her eyes but not breaking the rhythm of her work. "Yes, you. Your shoulder is fully healed by now, isn't it? Or do a prince's hands simply not work as well as a farmer's?"

"A Fflam is never too proud for any sort of work," Fflewddur huffed. "But… ah… I may need a few pointers on how to go about it."

"I never showed you before?" Braith asked. She paused and brushed a few errant strands of hair from her forehead. "Well come over here to Glenys and I'll teach you. And if you don't get the hang of it, you can muck out the stalls for me instead."

Braith stood and gestured for Fflewddur to get off of his own makeshift stool. She pulled it over to the cow next to hers, and grabbed another milk pail.

"There. Sit," she commanded. Fflewddur obeyed.

Braith squatted down beside him and showed him the proper motion, guiding his hands when he didn't catch the knack of it at first. Glenys the cow skewed her head backwards to look curiously at Fflewddur, puzzled by the spiky-haired stranger but too placid to object to his presence. Braith looked on critically for a few moments. She stifled a chuckle at the sight of Fflewddur's forehead scrunched up with intense concentration.

"Now you're getting it," she said encouragingly. "See? Not so difficult… You're good with your hands after all. I'll have to keep that in mind…" she added, with a wry twist of her lip and a gleam in her eye.

Fflewddur kept his eyes focused on his task, attempting to ignore her suggestive remark. He _did_ wish she would quit teasing him so. She knew right well he fancied her, and also knew he couldn't do a blasted thing about it. Friends they were, as they had been since childhood, and friends they would have to remain—nothing more, no matter how much either of them wished otherwise. There was no need for her to prod that sore spot.

They worked side by side without talking for some time. Only the rhythmic sound of milk hitting the pails broke the silence.

"Do you tire of doing this day after day?" Fflewddur asked after a while. "I imagine it must get tedious after a while."

"Of course," Braith replied. "I want to screech with boredom sometimes. But it must be done, so I do it. Besides," she shrugged, "I never hear anyone complain when there is good cream and cheese on their table. The effort is worth it."

"Don't you long to get away, though? To just ramble, and see all there is to see in Prydain?" Fflewddur asked. A distinct note of wistfulness ran through his voice.

"Well, I often would like to get away from my _family_," Braith said with a warm laugh. "They're dear to my heart, but there are just so_ many_ of them—constantly underfoot, and bickering, and making noise. I swear, I wouldn't have that many children for all of the gold in Prydain!" She shuddered at the thought. "I suppose I will have to be a spinster… An old spinster with plenty of cows to earn my keep."

"You'll disappoint quite a few young men if you do that, I'm sure…" Fflewddur said ruefully.

"Ha! Flatterer," said Braith, fighting back a smile. "But that is neither here nor there. Cantrev Dunoding is my home, and I do like it for the most part. I suppose it might be nice to visit the sea sometime… But on the whole, I've no great desire to ramble much farther than our cows' pastures." She cast a sidelong glance Fflewddur's way. "I take it you do?"

"Absolutely," Fflewddur sighed. "This realm is so pitifully small, and that castle is so damp and dreary, and all of the things I'm expected to do seem utterly pointless. Memorizing the family trees of every king in Prydain? Knowing which noble to greet first at a feast? Learning the proper statements to make when granting a boon? Yes, those are _ever_ so useful…"

"You're lucky to have the position you do, you know," Braith said tartly. "You never want for anything, being a king's son."

"Everything except _freedom_," Fflewddur protested. "Great Belin, I think the cows in this stable have more freedom than I do. They get to roam around more every day, that's for certain."

"Hmmm." Braith frowned slightly. "Why don't you try your hand at becoming a bard, then? I know that probably sounds like a ridiculous suggestion, but they wander more than anyone. And that should be a noble enough profession to satisfy a royal family…"

Fflewddur's hands stopped mid-pull; the cow looked back at him and lowed with mild annoyance at the interruption. The idea of becoming a bard had never occurred to Fflewddur. He'd always been fascinated by the bards who passed through, and wished his own life played out like one of their heroic chants, but never had he dreamed of being a bard himself. The vision of it blossomed in his mind like the first flush of flowers in spring. A bard! He could ramble wherever his heart pleased, free of the fetters that bound him to castle and cantrev! He could be a paragon of wisdom and purveyor of grand entertainment! Let Ffynnon become king, or Gwythyr, or even Gethin if need be. _He_ would be as untethered as a summer breeze!

Braith came over and snapped her fingers in front of his long nose. Fflewddur popped out of his daydream with such a jolt that he nearly lost his seat on the bucket.

"Don't get too carried away," Braith chided him. A knowing smile played across her lips. "There is plenty of work involved in barding, too. Your back will ache from hunching over books and parchments instead of milk pails, but it will ache just the same. I wager it will take far more studying than you'd like to earn your wanderings."

Fflewddur sighed, but his heart still felt light as a sunbeam. Odd how the prospect of being buried in parchments and tomes of lore didn't seem so onerous if it would buy him freedom in the end.

"Come on," Braith said. "Finish that milking so we can go for a walk. The snow is fresh and pretty today, and I don't want to miss it."

* * *

A/N: Regarding the 'scandalous' ancestral connection Fflewddur has to the House of Don... I did have a particular story from the Mabinogion in mind. A gold star goes to anyone who figures out which one. ;) (There is a tiny clue in something Braith says.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
**

* * *

And so the time passed, day after day and snowfall after snowfall, until the depths of winter. Then one day, the castle guards spotted two riders in the distance, dark shadows against the white fields. They rode through the gates bearing two battered shields and a look of grief far heavier than any physical burden. After a hushed exchange with the guards, Queen Anwen was summoned. There was hardly need to speak the message, for the warrior's grim expression told all: Gethin and Gwythyr were slain. Their bodies lay side by side beneath a burial mound just east of Annuvin. Together in birth, they were together forever now in death.

Anwen bore the news stoically, resilient as a tree that bends to the windstorm's wrath rather than break. She took her sons' shields from the messengers' outstretched hands, and quietly thanked them for their bravery and kindness in carrying such difficult news. Whatever tears she had, she held back until she was alone; she did not want Fflewddur to worry about her in addition to grieving for his brothers.

Fflewddur, for his part, was in shock. He had known there was a chance his brothers would not survive, but his characteristic optimism had brushed that possibility aside. Now, he felt as if he had gone to sleep whole and woken up with only one leg—a sudden disappearing act that defied belief. It didn't seem real. It didn't seem possible that Gethin and Gwythyr would never again come walking through the castle gates. As much antagonism as there had been between them, Fflewddur did care for his brothers. He would have welcomed their smirks and jeers if it meant the chance to see them once again.

* * *

If the prior months had been difficult for Fflewddur, the next one was even worse. Anxiety piled atop boredom, until he felt suffocated and pinioned by invisible hands. Never one to sit still in the first place, he began pacing the castle corridors and ramparts compulsively—hour after hour, day after day—just for the sake of moving his restless limbs.

Anwen noticed her son's unrest and pondered how she might bring him solace. She herself had already seen too much death in the course or her life, and was accustomed to moving on in the midst of sorrow. Fflewddur was not; his heart had no callouses yet to blunt the pain. His vivid imagination worked against him too, compounding his worries. He needed some sort of distraction… But what? They couldn't even expect any wandering bards to pass through, given the frigid season…

Suddenly, a memory sparked in the queen's mind. They might not have any bards, but they _did_ have an old harp lying around somewhere… A passing minstrel inadvertently left it behind years ago when a harvest festival got drunkenly out-of-hand and erupted into a scuffle. The poor minstrel had high-tailed it out of there without his instrument, and never returned. If only she could find where she'd tucked it away…

With a will, Anwen rummaged through all of the old chests and wardrobes in the castle, from the top of the keep to the bottom, uncovering more moths and cobwebs than anything else. At last, though, she found the harp nestled in an old chest of blankets in the guest chambers. Small wonder she hadn't seen it in so long, for they seldom had any visitors. The guest room had essentially become a storage space, piled high with odds and ends no one knew quite what to do with but couldn't bear to discard. Anwen inspected the harp carefully for damage. It had never been the finest instrument to begin with, and its strings had sundered from time and neglect, but the wood frame was sound. It would serve. She brushed away its shroud of dust and went to track down Fflewddur.

Given the size of the castle, it didn't take long for her to find him on the western rampart. He was leaning his gangly frame upon one of the crenels and looking out over the valley, either inured to the bitter cold or deliberately ignoring it. It struck her suddenly just how awkwardly transitional he looked—as though she were seeing both the boy and the man in one body, simultaneously. Had so much time already passed? And yet, not enough time had passed to make him the man he now needed to be.

"Fflewddur," she called out, concealing the harp as best she could within the folds of her cloak. "I would like a word with you."

Fflewddur turned, startled. He frowned slightly, half expecting a reprimand of some sort. Nevertheless, he approached Anwen and stood tall, bracing himself for rebuke.

"I have something I would like to give you," she began.

"Oh… uh… pardon me?" Fflewddur asked, bemused.

"…Something that may help you pass the time when it stretches too long for comfort," said Anwen. She pulled the harp from behind her back and held it out to him.

Fflewddur peered down at the instrument, both stunned and curious.

"A harp? But where…?" he asked.

"Oh, we have had it lying around for years; I had entirely forgotten about it," Anwen replied. "I am afraid it is somewhat the worse for wear, but the strings can be mended. I shall ask Baeddan to acquire some for you. If you would like to keep it, that is."

"Great Belin, of course!" Fflewddur cried. He beamed with excitement as he took it from her hands. While a true musician would have considered it a mediocre instrument at best, in his eyes it was the finest harp ever wrought. Moreover, it was a key to unlock freedom's gate; with it, he truly _could_ work toward becoming a wandering bard.

"It will take a great deal of effort to learn the playing of it, so do not become too frustrated," Anwen noted, knowing well just how impatient Fflewddur could be. "If you keep at it and develop enough skill, you can put that imagination of yours to good use composing a song or two. If nothing else, the pleasant sound of it may settle your nerves."

"Never fear, a Fflam is always diligent and a quick study!" Fflewddur stated with confidence. "I will be playing it within a week or two, I'm sure. And by the time father and Ffynnon return, I will have a great chant prepared to celebrate their victory." He bowed his windblown head to his mother. "You have my greatest thanks. This is a boon beyond measure, and it will not be wasted upon me."

Anwen stifled a chuckle at her son's grandiose expression of thanks. It pleased her, though, to know she had hit upon something that would interest him.

"Now, mind you, I do not want to hear from Baeddan that you have begun shirking your true lessons for this," the queen warned. "The harp is to be a respite from your daily responsibilities, not a replacement for them."

"Oh certainly not, certainly not," Fflewddur replied. Already, he was already only half listening, preoccupied with strumming his fingers across the few intact strings.

Anwen smiled and took her leave of him. She knew she had likely set a dragon loose when it came to her son being distracted from his studies. Yet, oddly enough, she found that she only half-cared. If playing the harp brought him a fragment of joy, it would be worth the repercussions. Life was too fleeting to spend it mired in grief and worry.

* * *

The new harp couldn't wash away all traces of Fflewddur's anxiety and sorrow, but it ground down and smoothed their edges to the point of tolerance. As Anwen had warned, learning to play the instrument was vastly more difficult than he had imagined. Yet, he didn't seem to mind that particular toil so much. He returned to it every spare moment he could snatch, until his blistered fingers forced him to take a break. Eventually, though, he could pluck out a rough tune well enough to satisfy his pride.

Emboldened by his newfound talent, such as it was, Fflewddur slipped out of the castle at his first opportunity and went to show Braith. He went directly up to the cottage door this time, too excited to be prudent. Besides, Braith was likely correct in thinking that none of her family knew his true identity. She'd told them long ago, when they'd played together as children, that he was the son of one of the castle servants. From what Fflewddur could tell, they hadn't questioned it since—or they simply didn't care.

Braith's mother answered his knock. If she was surprised to see a young man with harp in hand turn up at her doorstep, she was too harried to comment. "Braith! _Braith_! Someone here to see you!" she called out, over the din of what sounded like an entire shelf of pots and pans clattering to the floor, and the piercing wail of one of Braith's younger siblings.

Braith came rushing to the door and smiled broadly when she saw that the "someone" was Fflewddur. She grabbed his arm and hurriedly pulled him away from the door and off toward the byre.

"But what is this?" she exclaimed once they'd ducked inside, reaching out to touch the harp wrapped tightly in Fflewddur's arms. "Wherever did you get a harp?"

"Oh, it's a treasured family heirloom, passed down through so many generations that no one recalls who had it first," Fflewddur explained. "Rumor has it, it may even be linked to the legendary bard Menwy himself! My mother gifted it to me."

He held the harp out to Braith so that she might take a closer look. She brushed her fingers over the newly-repaired strings and tapped with curiosity on the sound board. Bards and lesser minstrels had occasionally passed through the cantrev before, but she had never had the chance to examine a harp so closely.

"It's beautiful," Braith murmured admiringly. "Now you really _can_ become a bard, and wander off on all of the grand adventures you've dreamed about." Although she was smiling, Fflewddur thought he sensed a trace of sadness in her voice and eyes.

"Yes," said Fflewddur. "I'm hoping as soon as the weather turns, and everything settles down with the battles and such, that I can get leave to visit Caer Dathyl and study under the bards there. I wonder if I might even meet Taliesin… Now _that_ would be something!" Fflewddur beamed at the thought of meeting Prydain's Chief Bard.

"Oh. Yes, of course you should go to Caer Dathyl," Braith said, forcing another smile. "You're not likely to find a teacher around here, after all. But you had better return often to play for me," she warned. "It is only a few days travel from here to there, after all."

"Of course, of course!" Fflewddur cried. "A Fflam never forgets his friends!"

"But enough talk," Braith said, planting her hands on her hips. "Are you going to play something for me now or are you going to keep me in suspense?"

"That is precisely why I came—to play, I mean, not to keep you in suspense," Fflewddur replied. "What would you like to hear? Why, I know a hundred songs already! Or more!"

"Hmmm… How about a ballad?" Braith suggested.

"Err… Yes, well… I haven't quite _perfected_ any of those yet. Would a battle chant suffice instead?" Fflewddur asked. "A rousing chant to warm the blood on this cold day?"

Braith laughed at having called his bluff. "All right, a battle chant then. My blood stands ready and waiting to be warmed."

Fflewddur took a seat on one of the milking stools and put the harp to his shoulder. Braith sat on the ground in front of him, legs crossed, leaning back on her hands. Her head tilted to one side slightly as Fflewddur began to play. His nerves got the better of him and he fumbled a little with the strings, but his voice was strong and unwavering.

"It sounds like you have a fair bit of practice ahead," Braith remarked when he finished. "But it's a solid beginning to be sure—very respectable for someone who has only been playing for a handful of weeks. And you have a lovely voice," she added.

Fflewddur grinned as if she had proclaimed him the finest bard in the land. "Why thank you!" he said. "I have a ways to go, I'm afraid, but I do seem to have a certain knack for picking it up quickly…"

"Then come with a romantic ballad next time," Braith challenged. "Something to make me swoon," she added, batting her eyelids facetiously.

"As good as done!" Fflewddur promised. He wasn't entirely sure _where_ he would learn any romantic ballads, let alone how to play them, but no matter. He had the will, and blast it if he wouldn't find a way, even if he had to compose the song himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

It was not until the dregs of winter that the warriors of Caer Fflam finally returned. The ground was still frozen, and a damp chill permeated both air and bones. Fflewddur, wandering yet again along the ramparts in spite of the weather, heard excited shouts issuing from the guardhouse. He ran to the corner tower for a better view. At his first glimpse of the returning warriors, he stopped short. The ragged, weary band straggling in through the gates looked nothing like the victorious heroes described in bardic lore. The war against Arawn had taken a heavy toll. Scores of men were sorely wounded; Cadwallon himself was limping along with a crutch, lamed by a wound to his thigh. It was clear that many others, like Gethin and Gwythyr, would not return at all.

Fflewddur scanned the crowd anxiously for his father and Ffynnon, but saw neither. Toward the end of the group, one man was being borne along on a sling. Fflewddur couldn't see him well amid the throng, but gathered from the lack of a shroud that he was injured rather than slain. Fflewddur watched, stunned, as they carried the wounded man through the courtyard and toward the keep. He saw his mother come to meet them; heard her cry out; watched her reach to clasp the wounded man's hand and cradle his head. He saw her look up, dazed, as one of the warriors held out another battle-scarred shield to her. They were close enough now for Fflewddur to see clearly. It was his father's shield, emblazoned with Godo's golden flame. It was Ffynnon who lay on the sling.

Fflewddur raced along the rampart, down the turret stair, and across the courtyard to the keep, but the group had already disappeared within. He paused at the threshold, unsure whether he could bear the scene he knew lay inside. If he just stayed out, he wouldn't know anything for certain… He could imagine he hadn't seen what he thought he had… He could keep telling himself that all would end well… that nothing had changed…

A swift cold wind sent bits of courtyard straw and debris skittering around Fflewddur's legs, as chaotic as his own emotions. He wrestled with his fear for what felt like an age. Finally, cursing himself for being a coward, he clenched his fists and plunged through the doorway.

The corridors were unnervingly quiet as he made his way to Ffynnon's chamber. Each footstep rang out harshly, as if warning him to turn back. When he reached the closed chamber door, Fflewddur paused again, straining to hear the muffled voices on the other side. They were too hushed to make out individual words, but their tone conveyed more than enough. Fflewddur bit his lip so hard it bled. Should he enter now and risk interrupting the healer's work? Would his presence be a help or a hindrance? In the end, he decided against it. He settled himself against the wall beside the door to wait.

Time passed, but so slowly that it almost felt like it had stopped. '_Everyone else is holding their breath_,' Fflewddur thought. 'W_hy wouldn't time do the same_?' At last, however, the old healer exited the room, nearly tripping over Fflewddur's outstretched legs.

"Oh!" Emyr exclaimed, startled to see him sitting there. "Why did you not come in, dear boy? Then again…" A look of sorrow and pity shadowed the creases in the man's wizened face. "Perhaps it is best you did not enter right away. You may now, though. It would be wise…" His words trailed off and he stood there awkwardly for a moment.

Fflewddur nodded somberly and rose stiffly to his feet while the healer hustled away to prepare more medicines and bandages. Fflewddur entered the room quietly, warily; all words had flown from his head like a flock of startled sparrows. Anwen, sitting at Ffynnon's side, looked over her shoulder at Fflewddur. Her face was drawn with barely contained grief for her lost husband, and concern for her gravely wounded son.

"Here," she said, rising from the low stool. "Come sit. He is feverish and weak, and in and out of consciousness, but I am sure he would like to see you when he wakes again. I am loath to leave him, but I must speak with the healer, and Baeddan, and Cadwallon, and address the returning warriors."

Fflewddur did as she bade him. He kept his eyes cast downward, avoiding the supine figure on the pallet before him. Anwen rested a hand gently on his shoulder for a moment, squeezed once, then left the room.

For hours, Fflewddur kept vigil by Ffynnon's side. It took nearly that long for him to stir up the courage to look at his brother directly, to see and to acknowledge his brokenness: the bruised flesh; the bandages; the inflamed red skin just beyond those bandages; the paradoxical flushed pallor of intense fever. At times, Ffynnon tossed restlessly in the throes of his illness. In other moments, he lay still as death. Fflewddur wasn't sure which was more frightening.

At last, in one of the calmer spells, Ffynnon awoke and recognized his brother.

"Fflewddur… I am home?" he asked. His raspy voice was barely audible.

"Yes, you are home," Fflewddur nodded. "… And about time, too," he added with a forced smile. "Although, I must say I'm rather disappointed at the lack of fanfare and celebration."

Ffynnon smiled joylessly in return. "No, this is not the homecoming I hoped for. Although it is more homecoming than I feared I would have…" His face darkened and his gaze lost its depth, looking toward the haunted past rather than the present.

"But home you are," Fflewddur went on, doing his best to sound optimistic. "And I'm sure you will be up and about again in no time."

"This is not the time for bending truths," Ffynnon said sharply. "Or for flat lies."

Fflewddur's shoulders sagged. A long silence hung between them. Only the sound of Ffynnon's strained breathing and the sputter of the hearth fire cut the air.

"No. No, I suppose it isn't," Fflewddur admitted at last. "But… is it a lie if I _want_ it to be true?" he added weakly.

Ffynnon turned his face to the wall. Fflewddur pretended not to see the shuddering, choked sob that ran through his brother's shoulders and chest.

"It _has_ to be true," Fflewddur continued desperately, as though the words were an incantation that could conjure wishes into being. "You… You are the king, now." Tears began to sting the corners of his eyes. "You _must_ be the king… You were meant to be… You are the clever one; the noble one; the fearless one…"

"I was deathly afraid," Ffynnon said curtly, turning back to face his brother. "I am still afraid. I was terrified of battle, and terrified to be king, and now I am terrified to be… to be nothing at all." He paused, swallowing hard and trying to regain his composure. "But that doesn't matter, does it? When something must be done, it matters not whether we fear it. We must face it just the same."

He reached out and grasped Fflewddur's hand. Fflewddur held it tightly, as if that could tether his brother to the world of the living.

"Yes… Yes, I understand," Fflewddur replied, hoping he truly did.

There was another extended silence; words felt feeble and useless in the end. The locked gaze between the brothers said far more.

"It took four Huntsman to bring him down, you know…" Ffynnon murmured. His face contorted in grief and his voice was hoarse, but there was yet a measure of defiant pride in both. "Father, I mean. It took four Huntsman to slay him. And… And I think he was afraid, too… And it still took four of them."

The tears in Fflewddur's eyes won their rebellion at last and broke silently across his cheeks. All he could manage was a nod—one single, firm, somewhat forced gesture of understanding and solidarity.

Anwen returned then. A look of tentative relief ran through her entire body when she saw Ffynnon awake and speaking with his brother. Fflewddur rose from the osier stool and, with some hesitation, released Ffynnon's hand. He gestured for his mother to sit, then hurried from the room. He could not bear a backward glance.

* * *

Fflewddur thrashed about on his pallet all night, unable to snare more than a few minutes of rest at a stretch. Visions of gory battles haunted his dreams, and his waking moments were tormented by the very real specter of Ffynnon's possible death. He pleaded with whatever beneficent spirits might exist to spare his brother; to let him become the man and king he had always seemed destined to be.

But midway through the night, it came, reverberating down the cold stone corridor: an outcry so anguished, so piercing, that it rent the fabric of the darkness. Fflewddur shuddered at the gut-wrenching sound, so unlike any human cry he had ever heard before—a cry he hoped never to hear again. He needed no messenger to interpret its meaning: the force of Anwen's grief had finally battered down the fortress of her will. Ffynnon, too, was dead. Far in the distance, Fflewddur heard the mournful sound of Gwyn the Hunter's horn. Its echoes rang out through the hills, and the castle walls, and even within the confines of his own skull. Yet eerie as it was, the call haunted him far less than his own mother's heartbroken wail. Fflewddur buried his face in the pillow, screamed curses at the fates, and sobbed until he was drained dry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

* * *

A pall hung over the castle for days. Conversations were hushed. Smiles were half-hearted, and followed quickly by downcast gazes and weary sighs. The empty places where men should have been felt like holes in the warp and weft of life—broken threads, causing the strands around them to unravel. Not a few voices were heard cursing King Math for calling the men to war in the first place, though all knew he could not have done otherwise; Arawn had to be stopped, lest all of Prydain suffer. Moods were as grim and bleak as the landscape itself, which had yet to break into spring.

Yet even the greatest storms of sorrow cannot blow full-force indefinitely. Moment by moment, people shook off their sorrow and returned to their daily routines. There was the planting season to prepare for, livestock to tend, cottage repairs to be done, people to feed, and countless other chores to fill the hours and preoccupy the mind. Daily life did not halt in the wake of death's scythe.

There was also the matter of a vacant throne to fill. Queen Anwen weighed the decision carefully for a long while before she finally requested a private council with Baeddan and Cadwallon. They gathered one evening in her chambers. The queen sat behind a massive table strewn with parchments. Baeddan stood before her, hands clasped and wringing in agitation. Cadwallon was beside him, as composed as ever, but with concern written clearly in his close-drawn brows and the tense set of his jaw.

"I have called you here to discuss the issue of succession," Anwen began.

There was a substantial pause. Baeddan shifted his weight nervously. Cadwallon nodded for the queen to continue.

"Fflewddur is not ready to be king," Anwen declared. It was a flat, dispassionate statement of fact. Too dispassionate, in fact—the queen was fighting hard to keep emotion out of her voice and hidden from view.

"No… he is not…" the chief steward replied slowly, hesitant to say more.

"Do you agree, Cadwallon?" asked the queen.

Cadwallon nodded again. "He remains… _unfocused_," the war leader said. "His heart is not in his training, and that leads his mind to wander."

"So, what course of action would you recommend?" Anwen asked. "I suspect I know your answer already, but would like to hear it outright."

"Well, Fflewddur is technically not _quite_ of age yet," Baeddan replied. "It would be entirely acceptable for you to serve as regent until he reaches that threshold… perhaps even longer, if necessary."

"That would buy some much-needed time," Cadwallon agreed. "With you, an established and knowledgeable monarch on the throne, there would be less risk of a bid to overthrow the realm. Transitions of power are often seen as moments of weakness, ripe for such ventures."

The queen sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and massaged her forehead with the fingertips of one hand. "I fear he will still not be ready. He has good intentions and a sharp mind, but he sorely lacks wisdom and restraint. Alas, I am not confident that will change within a year or two."

Baeddan frowned. He dug for a way to reassure his queen while still speaking truth, yet came up with naught but silence. Cadwallon did no better. Their reticence was an answer in itself—one Anwen understood perfectly.

"Well, there is nothing for it but to wait," said the queen, "and hope Fflewddur realizes he must rise to shoulder the burden placed irrevocably upon him." She sighed once more and gazed into the indeterminate distance. "I am weary…" she said at last, quietly. "Weary and heartsick, and ready to pass the duties of governance on to another. But I cannot in good conscience place the crown on one who is both unready and unwilling. Where does that leave me? Where does that leave us all?"

Her statement was an uncharacteristic admission of vulnerability and doubt. Always before, Anwen had been the pragmatic, steady backbone of the royal house—a counterpoint to Godo's good-hearted but somewhat impetuous nature. A noticeable change had begun in the queen. She maintained her composure and fulfilled all of her duties as before, in spite of her grief. Yet she seemed to have drawn inward, like a tree pulling its life down into its roots for winter. Gone was her light-hearted side, along with those subtle jests she interjected at just the right moments to keep tensions down and spirits up. Gone was the quiet singing that wafted around her daily tasks. She still smiled on occasion, and even laughed from time to time, but both expressions appeared shallow, as though her heart could only go through the motions of joy without truly feeling it.

* * *

Anwen was not the only one altered by grief. The loss of both father and brothers ignited a grim determination in Fflewddur. Faced with imminent kingship and all too aware of his own shortcomings, he did his best to become worthy of the crown—and quickly. Over the next few months, he redoubled his efforts during the lessons he had shirked before, studying so hard that Baeddan began to wonder whether the Fair Folk had stolen away the real Fflewddur and left a changeling in his place. In combat training, he took a particularly keen interest in pushing his limits and learning all that Cadwallon could teach him. He even convinced the war leader to train him in driving rain and biting winds, so that no type of adverse weather would diminish his prowess. The beast of obligation rode Fflewddur's back hard, spurring him doggedly onward to become ever better, stronger, smarter, and more prepared.

In the midst of one such training session, he and Cadwallon paused for a break, taking a seat on the hard-packed ground. The war leader wiped his streaming brow and took a long draught from the leather water flask. He handed it over to Fflewddur, who was still breathing hard from his exertions. Fflewddur gulped some water down, poured more over his hot, disheveled head, and passed the flask back.

"You have improved a great deal," Cadwallon said with a glint of pride in his eye. "See what a difference it makes when you actually keep your mind on the task at hand?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Fflewddur asked. "A Fflam always has single-minded focus on any endeavor."

"Ha!" Cadwallon cut him off with an abrupt laugh. "Is that so?"

Fflewddur clamped his mouth shut and looked a little sheepish. "Well, I suppose I have been rather _more_ single-minded of late…" Fflewddur acknowledged as he ruefully examined his calloused and blistered hands. In truth, he had been so intent on his current task that he hadn't noticed until just that moment how much they stung.

"So, what finally lit the fire under your arse?" Cadwallon asked. He gave Fflewddur a wry smile. "I'd begun to think you were a lost cause—or that I was simply too poor a teacher."

"No, no, you are a fine teacher. It was…" There was an extended silence while Fflewddur weighed his answer. At last, he settled on the raw truth. "It was guilt, I suppose," he admitted.

"Guilt?" Cadwallon asked. Fflewddur couldn't discern whether Cadwallon's question reflected genuine lack of understanding or merely surprise that Fflewddur had owned up to such a thing.

"Yes, guilt," Fflewddur sighed. "I can't help but feel like I failed them, you see. My father and brothers, I mean. I keep thinking, if I had only been a better rider, I would never have fallen from that dratted horse. And if I had not fallen, I would not have been injured and would have been able to go to battle with them. And if I had gone, and been a more skillful warrior, I… I might have saved them."

Cadwallon's brow furrowed. "You give yourself too much credit," he said. "If you had gone with them, you would have died with them."

Fflewddur looked abashed at the brusque reply.

"My apologies," Cadwallon said. "I did not mean that as it sounded—only that it is fortunate you were spared from battle. Even the greatest of warriors are little match for Arawn's Huntsmen. I myself was lucky I escaped with no worse than I did," he added, gesturing to his leg, which had mostly healed but still ached when the weather turned.

"Listen," Cadwallon went on when he saw that Fflewddur remained unconvinced. "If there is anyone who should feel guilt over their deaths, it is I," he admitted. "It was my duty to train them, and to fight for them, and to die protecting them if need be." He paused a moment before continuing, his voice low and choked. "Night after night, I relive it all in my head… wondering how I could have better trained your brothers, or fought harder, or been swifter on my feet…" The young war leader trailed off. He stared down at the water flask still clutched in his hand.

"But such is the nature of war," Cadwallon continued. "Death is always lurking within the one gap in your skill or the single misstep you take. And sometimes it cuts you down even when you make no mistakes at all." He shook his head. His mouth was set in a determined line. "If you think overmuch about it, it will drive you mad." He turned his gaze back to Fflewddur. "Let your sense of duty drive you instead. It will bear you up; guilt will only grind you down."

Fflewddur, pensive, scratched abstract lines in the dirt with the point of his sword. "What missteps did they make?" he asked at last. He looked up at Cadwallon and a hard, commanding expression flared in his eyes.

Cadwallon hesitated. "In truth… I do not know," he said with a shake of his head. "They all fought fiercely and well. For good or ill, I did not see Gethin, or Gwythyr, or your father fall. And as for Ffynnon… I was near him, but did not see clearly how he was struck. I saw only the beginning of the fray wherein it happened."

"Well, tell me that then," Fflewddur pressed. There was an iron edge in his voice that Cadwallon dared not refuse.

"We were in Cantrev Penllyn," Cadwallon began, haltingly, in a somber tone. "It was a brutal scene. By the time we arrived, Arawn's forces had already laid waste to the village and put all of its people to the sword. We did our best to save those still living—to fight back their attackers and buy time to flee. There was one young woman with an infant in her arms… She was running toward the forest when a Huntsman came upon her. Ffynnon saw her plight and rushed to come between them. I saw too, but could not reach them, for I was attacked at the very same time. I only saw Ffynnon afterward, gravely wounded."

"Did the woman escape?" Fflewddur asked.

Cadwallon frowned. "She reached the forest," he said tersely.

"So Ffynnon saved her then…" Fflewddur said, grasping for any greater purpose in his brother's death.

"She… She did not survive," Cadwallon answered reluctantly. "I saw her later, among the slain. She must have returned to the fray, or been pursued and caught, or… I know not. It was a melee… chaos."

"I see." Fflewddur's shoulders slumped. "And the child? What became of it?"

Cadwallon shook his head. "Alas, I cannot say; I did not see the child again. It may be someone found and rescued it, but there is no way to be certain."

Fflewddur resumed scratching at the ground near his feet. Cadwallon looked skyward for a while, watching the clouds sweep inexorably by.

"The point is, Ffynnon strove to help," the young war leader said. "They all did. And in the end, that is all any of us can do. We give our all, and often never see what pattern fate weaves from it. But the threads are there. We must be content with knowing the threads are there, entwined with countless others. Good must come of it somewhere, sometime."

Fflewddur sighed heavily and nodded.

"But enough sad tales and deep philosophy," Cadwallon said, forcing himself back to his usual matter-of-fact tone. "Am I a war leader or a bard? Such high-minded musings are best left to Taliesin and his kind. Come," he added, standing and giving Fflewddur a clap on the back. "On your feet and back at it. We may need to be content with our best efforts in life, but _your_ best could still be better where swordplay is concerned."

Wearily and with a heavy heart, Fflewddur rose and walked back to the training ground.

* * *

A/N: I think all Prydain fans know whether that poor baby survived. ;) The timeline works with canon if Taran was 14 or 15 years old and Fflewddur was 30 or 31 at the time they meet in The Book of Three. So, at least readers can know that Ffynnon's death, although heartbreaking, wasn't entirely in vain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven  
**

* * *

Fflewddur plowed through the next year by sheer force of will. Summer came and went and returned again, in a blur of studying, training, and sitting in on councils and legal hearings. His earnest effort was not lost on Anwen. She had watched closely, with some surprise, as Fflewddur struggled diligently to master the knowledge and skills required for kingship. He still had much to learn, but it was clear to her that he had made substantial progress. More importantly, it appeared he had taken his duty to heart.

The queen summoned Fflewddur to her chambers one afternoon to discuss his achievements. She was sitting near the bright casement, working on another of her elaborate embroidery pieces. Though she looked up when Fflewddur entered, she did not set aside her work.

"Come, sit," she said warmly, gesturing to the sturdy oak chair across from her own. "Forgive me if I continue working while we talk—I seem to think more freely if my hands are occupied."

Fflewddur obliged, taking the seat that used to be his father's. It felt odd… He had not touched that chair, let alone sat in it, since he was a child, listening to Godo entertain the family with elaborate stories during the long nights of winter. Absentmindedly, his hand wandered over the carved armrest and found the rough grooves where he had scratched in his own name, those many years past.

The memory brought a bittersweet half-smile to Fflewddur's lips. He had just learned to write at that time, had liked the chair with its intricate images of forests and magical beasts, and wanted to lay claim to it before his brothers had the chance. In his young mind, it was no mere chair, but a grand throne for the mighty future King Fflewddur—back when the notion of kingship seemed glorious, and before he understood the loss required to attain it.

He'd gotten in a fair bit of hot water over that incident. His father had been furious at first, swearing to Belin he'd leave a mark of his own on Fflewddur's backside as punishment. Yet, when he'd heard the reason behind Fflewddur's wrongdoing, his outrage had softened and a faint twitch of suppressed mirth had shown at the corners of his mouth. He'd let his already contrite son off with a stern lecture about showing respect for others' belongings, and for the craftsmen who put great effort into making them. Fflewddur guessed his father had been secretly flattered that his son wished to follow in his footsteps.

Anwen's voice whisked Fflewddur back to the present. "I have been observing your efforts closely this year past," she began. "You have made great strides, indeed. Your father would be proud of you—as am I."

The compliment caught Fflewddur off-guard. Whatever he had guessed his mother might want to discuss, it certainly wasn't that; he had long despaired of ever measuring up to expectations. "Well, a Fflam always aims to please," he said with a surprised, slightly embarrassed grin. "It gladdens me to hear I have done so."

"As it should!" said Anwen brightly. "I thought you should know your progress has been noticed and appreciated, not least of which by me. But, to the underlying purpose of this meeting…" she continued. "In light of your achievements, I believe the time has come for you to take up the mantle of kingship."

Fflewddur was stunned; he stiffened a little in his chair and gripped the armrests hard. King? So soon?

"I have already spoken with Baeddan, Cadwallon, and the other advisors about it, and they are in agreement: a coronation is in order," Anwen proclaimed.

"But… But you truly think I am ready?" Fflewddur stammered. "I mean, a Fflam is ambitious—and I am worlds closer now than I was a year ago—but it _has_ only been a year…"

Anwen gave him a crooked smile. "You are as prepared as one could hope to be. No one is ever completely ready to assume such great responsibility—Belin knows, your father and I certainly weren't when we first came to power. And any man who believes himself perfectly ready at the outset is likely no more than a perfectly arrogant fool. There is always more to learn. Remember, too," she continued, "that you will not be alone in your endeavors. Baeddan, Cadwallon, the other advisors, and I myself will stand ready to assist you when needed."

Fflewddur nodded, but was too overcome with emotion to speak. A heady mixture of elation and pride swelled within his chest, even as dread carved a pit in his stomach. He had been fighting so hard to be worthy of the crown, yet the prospect of actually bearing its weight terrified him. Suddenly, his mind flashed back to his last conversation with Ffynnon… '_When something must be done, it matters not whether we fear it. We must face it just the same.'_ The realm needed a king. He, Fflewddur, was the one left to fulfill that need. He had no choice but to confront his fear—but was he up to the task?

Anwen, sensing Fflewddur's disquiet, set aside her work and came to lay her hands on his shoulders, firm and reassuring.

"You will be a fine king," she said with confidence. "You will make mistakes, to be sure, but you will learn from them. You will wrestle with seemingly impossible decisions, but you will make the best of whatever choice you take. You will give of your time and energy until you feel there is not a drop left to carry you through another day, but then you will see gratitude in the eyes of someone you help, and be renewed."

A sudden twinkle sparked in Anwen's eyes. "Oh, I have no doubt your mind will still wander; and you will continue stretching truth to its breaking point; and Baeddan's stodgy, by-the-book ways will surely drive you to distraction—but you will manage, and become quite a respectable king."

That brought a grin to Fflewddur's countenance at last. His mother knew him all too well; who was he to question her judgement?

"And speaking of Baeddan," the queen went on, "we had best go speak with him about the coronation ceremony. Knowing how he mires himself in the details of every formal event, we had best give him ample time to prepare. I would not want him to pull out what little hair he has left in frustration…"

* * *

In an uncharacteristic flash of poeticism, Baeddan set the coronation to coincide with the summer solstice—a nod to the Golden Sunburst emblem of the House of Don, Fflewddur's distant kin, as well as to a bright future under his rule. The event promised more pomp and ceremony than the tiny kingdom had seen in decades, so nearly every subject of the realm came to watch. They crammed into the modestly-sized Great Hall, shoulder-to-shoulder and knees-to-back, on row after row of benches. Fflewddur's excitement had triumphed over his nervousness; he sat tall on the dais at one end of the room. Anwen, sitting beside him, radiated both regal aplomb and motherly pride. Celebratory energy thrummed in the air as everyone waited for the ceremony to begin.

All went smoothly at first. Baeddan was in his element as Master of Ceremonies, milking each syllable and symbolic gesture for all it was worth. Then, just as he was getting to the part of the ceremony in which he expounded on how beneficent and courageous Fflewddur would be as king, an unexpected and shamefully tardy spectator strode through the Great Hall's open door. It was the castle's resident rooster: a hearty, rust-colored bird with a reputation for wily escapes and obstreperous misbehavior.

Only a few cottagers near the back of the Hall noticed at first. The bird kept quiet and Baeddan, unaware of its entrance, droned on with the ceremony. The rooster brazenly strutted up the center aisle toward the dais. His bright red comb was perked up jauntily. Titters of suppressed laughter began to break out as more and more of the assembled guests spotted him. Fflewddur himself struggled to keep a serious face as he watched the rooster parade forward, as proud as any courtier. Anwen looked startled and somewhat annoyed at first, but was soon on the verge of laughter herself, masking it as discreetly as possible behind her hand.

The uninvited guest nearly reached the dais before one of the cottagers decided to intervene. The young man lunged for the rooster as it strode past his legs, but only managed to snag a tail feather. Incensed at the impertinent assault, the bird let out a boisterous squawk and flapped overhead.

Mayhem ensued. Startled by the commotion, Baeddan whirled around, let out a squawk of his own and lost his balance, toppling into and knocking over one of the large candelabras. As a few of the cottagers rushed to stamp out the flames, others dashed about trying to catch the rooster. He handily evaded his pursuers, flying and scampering about in a flurry of feathers and talons. With the Great Hall so crowded, there wasn't much room to maneuver. Benches overturned as people scrambled and dove after the bird, which tripped up still more people in turn. At one point, the rooster broke free of the melee, flapping high overhead, only to snag its claws in a ceremonial banner draped along the rafters. Both banner and bird tumbled down, pulling several adjacent streamers with them in a chaotic swirl of color.

Fflewddur himself plunged into the fray, long limbs flailing.

"Oy! Get over here you jackanapes!" he shouted at the rooster, swiping at it as it ran between his legs. "You've had your fun. No one interrupts the coronation of a Fflam and gets away with it! I'll have you tossed into the soup pot! It will be chicken stew at the feast tonight, you mark my words!"

The rooster merely pecked at his grasping hands and scrambled away toward the dais. In a tumult of red feathers, it flapped upward and came to perch on the high back of Fflewddur's own throne. It crowed victoriously, neck arched and breast puffed out boastfully.

"Proclaiming yourself king, now are you?" Fflewddur called out. "We shall see about that, you braggart! A Fflam doesn't surrender so quickly!"

He leapt over a toppled bench, darted toward the throne and, while the rooster was distracted by its own crowing, snatched it by the legs. The rooster fluttered vigorously in protest, but Fflewddur held on tight.

Seizing the moment, Baeddan himself ran forward with crown in hand. He plopped the golden round on Fflewddur's sweaty brow and shouted out the most critical part of the ceremony, while the upside-down rooster continued to struggle furiously in the new king's clenched fists. The entire hall erupted in cheers. It was a coronation the likes of which none had ever seen, nor would ever see again.

Flushed with victory, Fflewddur decided to grant clemency to the feathered rascal, as his first official kingly decree. It _had_ shown admirable mettle, after all, which warranted a measure of respect. The young king passed the rooster off to the head falconer and instructed that it be spared the cook pot—but caged securely until the end of the festivities.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

Fflewddur was determined to stand tall under the weight of kingship, and forged ahead resolutely. He attacked the impossibly long list of tasks put forth by his advisors as a woodcutter would attack a mighty oak. He paid diplomatic visits to the neighboring cantrev kings to make himself known to them, and they to him. When his subjects came to him with their quarrels, he listened patiently to their convoluted grievances and handed down the fairest judgement he could conceive. He slogged through Baeddan's historical tomes about past kings—fighting back tears of boredom all the while—in hopes that he might glean some insight from them about what made rulers succeed or fail. He even comported himself as convention dictated, regardless of how inane he found the rules of etiquette to be.

Yet, as the initial thrill of the coronation wore off, the relentless work and self-denial began to take its toll. Fflewddur's underlying nature broke through where effort wore his willpower thin. His thoughts wandered and his limbs nearly twitched with the need to ramble. It only worsened when spring and summer arrived; all the land was bursting free while he remained caged.

One particularly bright and beautiful day, he could bear the temptation no longer. The world beyond his castle walls beckoned too strongly, and even playing his old harp brought no relief. He felt like a tethered falcon being taunted by the wind. Without a second thought, he tossed aside the missive he was reading, threw on his cloak and traveling boots, and fled the keep.

Fflewddur crossed paths with Baeddan as he stalked past the Great Hall toward the stable.

"My lord, you are leaving?" the chief steward questioned. "Now?"

"Yes," Fflewddur snapped. He tried to sidestep Baeddan but the chief steward shuffled into his way.

"But… But where?" The wild purpose Baeddan detected in the king's stride unnerved him.

"Out," Fflewddur replied brusquely. He needn't answer to anyone now that he was king, and this time he wasn't going to do so voluntarily.

"But… But Lord Glanmor will be arriving soon, to speak with you about the matter of…"

"I will return by sundown," Fflewddur said, cutting Baeddan off mid-protest. He stared his chief steward down, noticing for the first time that he himself was now the taller man. Baeddan swallowed hard and stared back for a few tense seconds. Finally, he gave a curt nod and stepped aside.

"Yes my lord," he said wearily. "Shall I delay the evening meal for your return?"

"No." Fflewddur was already five strides past him and not looking back.

The young king rode aimlessly for a while, over the fields and tree-scattered hillsides. Summer was at its peak. The bright sun warmed his shoulders, and cast the terrain in a shifting pattern of light and shadow as clouds passed overhead. Wildflowers dotted the fields like a shattered rainbow fallen to earth. A cool breeze stirred the pasture grasses into a sea of undulating green waves. The beauty of it captured Fflewddur's imagination. Nevertheless, the excursion failed to relieve his pent-up energy as much as expected. If anything, the brief taste of freedom merely whetted his appetite for more.

As the sun dipped on the horizon and shadows stretched long, he reluctantly began circling back toward the castle. Soon, however, he found himself gravitating toward the cluster of cottages instead. He resolved to visit Braith; surely her wry wit and good heart would ease his mind. There were a few hours of daylight left. Fflewddur spurred his horse to a canter and did not halt until he reached the edge of the cottage pastures.

He feared she would not be outside to see him. As he waited, with his steed huffing impatiently from time to time, Fflewddur began to feel foolish for coming. What was he hoping to gain, anyway? He had no real reason for visiting; and they had not seen each other for quite some time; and she was sure to be busy with some chore or other, as usual… He was just about to abandon the venture when he spotted Braith coming over a crest in the field, on her way home from one of the other cottages. He waved a hand to catch her attention but didn't dare call out. She halted, squinting under a raised hand to see who hailed her.

Fflewddur dismounted and stood beside his horse to wait. Agitated, he busied himself brushing a few tangles out of its mane. Braith did not hurry. She picked her way slowly across the field and up the slight rise at its border. She stopped a few paces from him and stood with arms crossed.

"What brings you here?" she asked when it became clear he was too tongue-tied to speak first. Her tone was cold—deliberately detached. "You never come this way anymore. It's been months…" Braith paused, but not long enough for Fflewddur to cut in. Her eyes narrowed. "Are you too proud to associate with the likes of me now that you are king?"

The accusation stung Fflewddur every bit as much as she had intended. "That is not true and you know it," he replied, piqued. "My life has not been my own…"

Braith continued to stare at him for a while, arms still folded across her chest. Finally, she sighed in resignation and her expression softened. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so cross. I know you've had a hard time of it," she acknowledged. "I've… I've simply missed you is all."

Hearing that made Fflewddur's heart leap—then ache as soon as it landed. He looked into Braith's eyes and then quickly down at his boots, finding the former too painful. Little had changed between them, but everything seemed to have changed around them. Fourth-in-line princes could get away with unconventional company and a wayward path. Kings could not—and they both knew it.

"So, what brings you here now?" Braith asked.

"I can't say that I know, exactly," he replied. "I was out for a ride and, next thing I knew, I was heading this way."

"It sounds like you missed me too, then." Braith's words held a reassuring glimmer of her characteristic teasing. "Come—let's head to the woods before someone sees you around here. They will recognize you now, I assume, what with everyone having gone to the coronation and all. And _quite_ a memorable coronation that was…" she added with a chuckle.

The pair walked for a time in silence among the leafy trees and amber evening sun. They meandered to a favorite glade where they had often played as children, and sat upon a mossy patch of ground beside the rippling stream that tumbled by.

"So… What is it like being a king?" she asked after a while. "Do you feel any different? Is it as difficult as you feared?"

"Oh no, it's not difficult at all," Fflewddur bluffed. "There is an incredible amount to be done, of course, but it comes quite naturally—must run in the blood after all. Why, just yesterday…"

Braith threw a skeptical look his way.

"It's been miserable," Fflewddur admitted with a groan. His shoulders slumped. "All day, I wait for the sun to set so I can escape into sleep. Then the moment it goes down, I begin to dread its next rising. I _want_ to be a good king, but I'm not cut from the right cloth for it… I feel like a wool jacket trying to be an embroidered robe."

"I'm sure it will get better in time," Braith ventured.

"If I manage to _survive_ that long," Fflewddur shot back. "A Fflam is optimistic, but I have my doubts…"

"Oh, come now," said Braith. It was her turn to feign confidence. "You've said it to me a hundred times at least: 'A Fflam never fails!' Quit telling yourself otherwise, and maybe you'll stop believing otherwise."

She shifted closer to him and rested her hand on his knee. A shiver coursed up Fflewddur's spine. Impulsively, he turned toward Braith, pulled her close, and stole a kiss. It was awkwardly wonderful for the moment it lasted, until Braith lost her balance and fell toward him, elbowing him in the stomach. Even then, she only laughed and leaned in again for more.

It was Fflewddur who pulled away suddenly, embarrassed.

"Why do you stop?" Braith asked. She sounded both puzzled and mildly annoyed.

"Great Belin, I shouldn't have come here," Fflewddur muttered bitterly. "It will only bring trouble…"

Braith sat back on her heels and studied him for a moment. "It's only a kiss," she said at last. "Don't tell me you haven't wanted to do that for a long while, now… And I'm not about to let you get up my skirts, so there's no harm in it."

"As if that needs to be said!" Fflewddur cut in sharply, slightly insulted that she apparently thought it _did_ need saying. She should know by now that a Fflam would never behave so dishonorably!

"Oh, I have older brothers—I've overheard their talk," Braith said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I have a fair idea of what goes through young men's heads."

"Well you needn't think I would _act_ on such thoughts," Fflewddur huffed. "Not that I am saying I _did_ have such thoughts, mind you, but even if I _had_…" The young king fumbled desperately for an escape route.

"Let it go," Braith said mercifully. "You needn't be offended."

Fflewddur happily bit his tongue and kept his eyes trained on a stray beetle that was scuttling across the turf in front of them. He empathized with that beetle, grubbing its way along in a world strewn with unpredictable obstacles and hazards. Although _it_ had the ability to fly away, at least… Fflewddur wondered if beetles had kings of their own. Or if beetle ladies were as perplexing as human ones…

Braith moved close to him again. "Listen," she commanded, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at her. Her dark eyes didn't waver from his. "You're not truly in love with me, and I'm not truly in love with you. We both know we'll go our separate ways in the end—and we both know that will be for the best. This is only a diversion. But I think that is what _you_ need and what _I_ want right now. It won't make parting ways any harder down the road."

It was a lie, of course—at least in part. It was true they weren't suited for each other; even if Fflewddur had been a peasant or Braith a princess, he was too restless and she was too comfortable with her life as it was. But that didn't mean their heart-strings would snap any less painfully at their inevitable separation. Nevertheless, they accepted the lie and embraced the temporary escape of each other.

* * *

A/N: Again, I'd like to give credit for inspiration where it is due. Thanks to Thistlerose, whose poignant story "The House of Your Heart is Lit From Within," sparked the idea of Fflewddur having had a slight romance with a young woman who cares very much for him, but is too much of a home-body for the relationship to last. I changed her name and occupation to help keep the two stories distinct—not trying to steal any original characters, after all. I'd be interested to see how Thistlerose might develop the parallel character differently...


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

If Fflewddur thought cutting ties with Braith would be the end of his troubles with women, he was sorely mistaken. Not long after he had taken the throne, Baeddan, and to a lesser extent Anwen, began hounding him to find a suitable queen. Fflewddur wasn't opposed to the notion at first… until he began actually _meeting_ the prospective brides.

First on the chief steward's list of potentials was Princess Rhelemon, daughter of King Gweir and Queen Rowena. Although their realm was only slightly larger than Fflewddur's own, the two shared a border. Moreover, Rhelemon stood to inherit at least a portion of the land, given that she had no brothers or close cousins. Both qualities made the princess an irresistible target in the Baeddan's quest to secure a betrothal for his king. He arranged for Fflewddur, Anwen, and himself to visit Cantrev Cryf in early autumn and meet with the royal family.

As the three of them rode with their small retinue up to King Gweir's stronghold, Fflewddur couldn't decide whether he was more anxious or excited—likely both in equal measure. Baeddan had extolled Princess Rhelemon's virtues so incessantly in the weeks leading up to the meeting that Fflewddur had begun to worry he might not be worthy of her. He tried to push those thoughts out of his head—best to project confidence in such a situation, after all—but they kept creeping back, poking holes in his courage. Yet, if the princess lived up to Baeddan's praise and _did_ take a liking to him, it sounded as though he could not dream of a better match. That prospect heartened him considerably.

Fortunately, the journey to Caer Cryf was a short one, so Fflewddur didn't have to stew in anticipation for very long. They arrived at the stronghold by early evening and were escorted to the Great Hall, where a banquet was to be held in their honor. Introductions came first, with all of the requisite ceremony that usually made Fflewddur squirm: the bows and curtsies, the formal titles that were far longer than necessary, and the trite expressions of pleasure at making each other's acquaintance—all exchanged while both parties surreptitiously sized each other up like wolves eyeing a rival pack.

This time, however, Fflewddur was far too distracted to be bothered by any of the courtly rigmarole. At the first sight of the princess, his heart leapt into his throat. Rhelemon possessed they type of beauty that inspired songs and led heroes on impossible quests. Her alabaster complexion was even more striking in contrast with her dark chestnut hair, which fell in intricate braids down her back. A delicate golden circlet gleamed upon her brow, above hazel eyes that shone nearly as bright. Her spring green dress, embellished with black embroidery, skimmed over her soft curves and pooled elegantly around her as she sank into a graceful curtsy.

Faced with such beauty, Fflewddur could scarcely remember his own name. He was glad Baeddan was handling the introductions. He was doubly relieved when King Gweir's own chief steward led him to a seat beside the princess instead of one facing her across the banquet table. Though Fflewddur certainly wouldn't have minded gazing at her all night, the additional eye-contact would only have rattled his nerves more.

_'Begin with a compliment_,' Fflewddur thought. '_It's hard to go wrong leading with a compliment_…' If only he could decide _which_ of the princess' many lovely attributes to compliment. Her hair? No, too predictable. Her eyes? No, that might appear too forward so early in the game. Her gracefulness? That might do, but would be rather difficult to weave into a conversation…

"That is a splendid gown you are wearing, Princess," Fflewddur remarked instead. "I have never seen cloth of that color anywhere—it's rather like those caterpillars one sees on the heather in late spring."

_'Drat and blast, that didn't come out right at all…'_ Fflewddur chastised himself inwardly. '_Comparing her to a bug? What a fantastic idea—yes, that_ _would win any maiden's heart…'_

Fortunately, the princess didn't seem to take his comment amiss. She merely smiled and fluttered her long eyelashes a little before launching into an extended account of the dress' finer points: its rare fabric; the lengthy time it took to embroider; its tint from a secret blend of dyes that could only be obtained from one particular group of weavers; and sundry other details whose significance was entirely lost on Fflewddur. The young king nodded politely and feigned interest while fervently hoping Rhelemon wouldn't notice that he hadn't a clue what she was talking about.

The arrival of servitors bearing platters of food finally curtailed Rhelemon's discourse on her gown and the latest fashions among the court ladies of Caer Dathyl.

"So…" Fflewddur tried again, picking nervously at the meal set before him. "Do you visit Caer Dathyl often? I have not been there yet myself…"

Rhelemon's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Oh, I visit as often as I can, though nowhere near as often as I would like. It is _stunningly_ beautiful—golden towers, bright white walls, colorful murals and tapestries in every room…"

Fflewddur sensed another extended monologue coming on.

"And the courtiers dress so finely there. And Prince Gwydion and the other warriors are so very _noble,_" she continued, nearly swooning. "It is all so grand. _You_ are kin to the House of Don, are you not?" Rhelemon asked.

Fflewddur choked on the gulp of wine he had just taken. Ordinarily, he would have proudly boasted of the relation, distant though it was. In this case, however, the princess' tone sounded a shade too eager for comfort.

"Ah yes—yes I am. On my father's side of the family," he replied.

"Have _you_ done any heroic deeds like Prince Gwydion?" Rhelemon pressed.

"Uhhhh… Why, of course!" Fflewddur claimed. "I mean… I don't like to boast…" he added, stalling while he racked his brain for any accomplishments that were even remotely valorous.

"Oh, do tell! You would not deny me the tale, would you?" Rhelemon insisted, pouting her full lips fetchingly.

"Well… ah… I _did_ have to confront a very persistent would-be usurper not long ago…"

"Really?" Rhelemon gasped. She pressed a hand to her breast in exaggerated astonishment.

"Oh, yes. He tried to rob me of the throne at my very own coronation!" Fflewddur said, warming to the tale. '_No need for the princess to know the avian identity of said usurper_,' he thought. '_It is boldness in the face of adversity that counts, after all_.'

Fflewddur eagerly plunged ahead with the story. "It turned into quite the melee: overturned benches, fires let loose, a press of warriors battling to gain the upper hand. The outcome looked uncertain at first, but I dove into the fight…"

Although the princess initially showed interest, her eyes glazed over well before Fflewddur got to the meat of the story. She nodded politely and smiled wanly at the points where nods and smiles would be appropriate, and even attempted a few weak gasps of surprise at the most dramatic parts, but her boredom was as obvious as a black fly in a bowl of cream. Chagrined, Fflewddur hastily wrapped up his tale. He resumed fiddling with the hunk of bread on his plate.

There was an embarrassingly long silence before Fflewddur worked up the nerve for another attempt at conversation.

"Has anything interesting come up in council of late?" he ventured. '_Not the most promising topic, but better than nothing_,' he thought. "Councils are usually rather lackluster affairs in my realm, but perhaps more happens here, what with being closer to Caer Dathyl and all."

"Council?" Rhelemon asked. Wrinkles of confusion marred her otherwise flawless brow. "Why would I have attended any councils?"

"Why would you not?" Fflewddur asked, taken aback.

"It is outside the purview of a lady like myself to weigh in on affairs of state, except in extreme circumstances," the princess explained, looking at Fflewddur as though he had questioned why pigs didn't perch in trees.

Now Fflewddur was the one perplexed. "And that, in and of itself, doesn't bother you?" he questioned. "Wouldn't you prefer to know what issues are arising in your own realm and have a say in the outcome?"

"Not particularly," Rhelemon replied with a shrug. "I should never have to attend to such issues anyway, unless my future husband is away for an extended length of time. And even then, my advisors would council me on the proper course of action after they discussed it amongst themselves."

"Hmmm." Fflewddur didn't know how to respond. It struck him as odd that the princess should care so little. After all, his own mother regularly sat in on councils and voiced her opinion—quite forcefully in fact, albeit tactfully. He had seen her take an entire room of advisors to task for recommendations she deemed impractical or ill-conceived. Fflewddur couldn't imagine Braith remaining silent either, were she in a position of power. Princess Rhelemon was clearly cut from a different sort of cloth.

The conversation tripped to a halt once more. Luckily, just at that moment, a harper stepped forward to play for the household and guests. He was not a true bard, only a wandering minstrel, but Fflewddur didn't mind in the least. He would happily have listened to a child drumming on pots and pans if it provided some escape from the awkward conversation at hand. As it turned out, the harper was actually very good. Fflewddur listened, enthralled, with newfound appreciation for the effort that underpinned such skill.

"Just _listen_ to that!" he exclaimed with breathless admiration. "It's almost magical the way he weaves those melodies together! Like a chorus of enchanted birds! I only wish _I_ could play so well."

"You play the harp?" Rhelemon asked incredulously.

"I do!" Fflewddur said cheerfully, hoping that line of conversation might actually lead somewhere, or at least impress the princess. "I have been playing for nearly two years now. It's rather difficult, I will admit, but a Fflam never shuns a challenge!"

"Why would you want to do such a thing?" asked Rhelemon, looking puzzled once again. "Learn to play the harp, that is. It seems like an awful lot of trouble when you could simply employ a harper to play for you, as we do."

"Why, because then I can write songs of my own, and have music whenever the mood strikes me," Fflewddur replied.

"I see…" the princess said, though she looked rather unconvinced.

"It's more enjoyable to do things for yourself, don't you think?" Fflewddur asked. "I mean, you have so much more control over your own path that way."

"But it is so much easier to delegate tasks to _others_," Rhelemon replied. "And I would much rather travel a well-worn path than cut my own through uncharted territory. Can you _imagine_ all of the hazards one might encounter when striking off on an unfamiliar way through life or land? False starts, wrong turns, unexpected swamps and mountains, rocks when you expected turf, rain storms arriving just when you are midway between one destination and another… What a bother all that would be! So messy and unpredictable." She scrunched up her nose in distaste at the thought of it.

"Ah—yes, well—I suppose there is some convenience in letting others make decisions and handle matters for you," Fflewddur allowed, though he personally quailed at the thought of it. He was beginning to understand why Baeddan had thought so highly of princess Rhelemon: it appeared she, too, was a staid traditionalist, and not inclined to question or challenge much of anything.

"So… what pastimes _do_ you enjoy then, if not music?" Fflewddur asked, somewhat desperately. He felt like he was grasping at billows of smoke now. Surely there was _something_ that captured the princess' interest or imagination.

"Well, I enjoy working on my embroidery," Rhelemon answered. "It provides such a good opportunity to catch up on court gossip with the other ladies. Why, just the other day, I was speaking to Lady Nerys about the most ridiculous gown that Lady Elinor wore to the harvest festival…"

'_Oh, no… Here we go again,' _Fflewddur thought.

The young king's shoulders slumped. The night was a disappointment, to say the very least. He glanced back over at Princess Rhelemon and found that her beauty no longer seemed as captivating. It called to mind wildflowers that lure you in with vibrant color, but reward you with no more than a weak scent. Fflewddur reached for his goblet and gulped down the remainder of his wine at one go, then looked glumly at the empty bottom of the vessel. He suspected it would take a fair bit more wine to see him through to the banquet's end. Great Belin, even Baeddan would have been more interesting than his present company!

* * *

As the group rode back to Caer Fflam the next morning, Queen Anwen fell back apace and drew her horse up alongside Fflewddur, who was dejectedly bringing up the rear.

"You will have to forgive me, but now I am going to play the nosy, meddlesome mother…" she quipped with a slight smile. "But satisfy my curiosity, if you will. What do you think of Princess Rhelemon? Did she capture your fancy at all?"

Fflewddur did not answer right away, grasping for a diplomatic way to express his discontent. "Ah… You see… She _is_ perfectly lovely…" Fflewddur replied at last. "And I do mean _perfectly_ so—far too good for the likes of me, really. I didn't know anyone could be so beautiful."

There was a long pause, punctuated by the steeds' rhythmic hoof-beats.

"_But_…" Anwen prompted.

Fflewddur sighed heavily. "Well, I don't mean to sound overly fussy—a Fflam is realistic—but the truth of the matter is, she was astoundingly _bland_ in every respect save appearance."

To his surprise, Anwen chuckled. "Well, I cannot say I did not see that coming. I was never terribly impressed by her mother, you see, when we were being schooled at Caer Dathyl. She was always more interested in embellishing her gowns and batting her eyes at the young warriors who passed through than learning some useful skills. It surprises me not at all that her daughter turned out much the same." The queen shook her head dismissively. "I can assure you, the conversation I had with Queen Rowena at the feast was likely no more exciting than yours was with the princess."

"No matter," the queen went on. "She is far from the only young lady in the land. Mayhap the next one you meet will suit you better."

"Huh," Fflewddur grunted. After his experience the previous night, he was hardly eager to hazard another such visit.

"Someone clever but _grounded—_that is what you need…" Anwen mused, giving her son a pointed look and ignoring his surly lack of response. "Oh, I know you must decide for yourself—but I do hope you find a steadfast, good-hearted, _level-headed_ woman… preferably with a patient ear for tall tales and harp music. We shall see who we can find."

Fflewddur couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. Was this hand-fasting or horse-trading? He heaved another weary sigh and rode on toward home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

Fflewddur didn't fare much better with the other noblewomen Baeddan arranged for him to meet. Some were haughty, some foolish, one was downright spiteful, most were insipid, and the one or two Fflewddur found interesting were entirely disinterested in him. None were a suitable match. Worse, given the diminutive size and relative obscurity of his realm, the pool of eligible noblewomen was woefully limited. So with each potential bride Fflewddur declined to pursue, Baeddan grew more agitated—and more vocal—about the matter.

The debate came to a head one day when Fflewddur refused a second meeting with Princess Rhelemon.

"Drat and blast, Baeddan, how many times must we go at this?" Fflewddur groaned. "I have met with all of the court ladies in the Northern Realms _and_ the Eastern Strongholds, and every last one was as dull as your old treatises. No, you won't convince me. Great Belin, I have already taken up a throne I did not want… I will not add a wife who doesn't suit me into the pot!"

"But Your Majesty," Baeddan blustered, "there is the matter of lineal continuity. It is imperative that you have an heir to continue the House of Fflam, and maintain the strength of the House of Don within the Northern Realms."

"I have barely become king myself and you are already thinking about the next in line?" Fflewddur asked, incredulous. "This realm—as much as I hate to admit it—is so small that it's hardly even _worth_ inheriting. It may as well become a Free Commot and simply answer directly to High King Math." The young king paced back and forth through the chamber in agitation. "Besides, as I see it, the throne won't need to be passed on until I am dead—at which point, I won't be in much of a position to care what happens to it, will I?"

Baeddan puffed himself up like a grouse trying to intimidate its rival. "This cantrev holds a critical strategic position in the eastern defense of Caer Dathyl," he argued. "Moreover, a well-planned union could increase the extent of your land holdings if you negotiated it as part of the dowry. Which is _precisely_ the reason I have been so persistent in trying to arrange a second meeting between you and Princess Rhelemon. As the only child of King Gweir…"

Fflewddur rolled his eyes. "So you are saying I should take a wife and produce an heir in order to acquire the size realm that would justify having an heir? I'm sorry, old fellow, but that doesn't make a bit of sense."

Baeddan spluttered indignantly at the accusation of flawed logic.

"Listen. A Fflam is open-minded," Fflewddur continued before Baeddan could issue another rebuttal. "If you miraculously come across a noblewoman with some spark to her—or find a way around the ridiculously old-fashioned prohibition against kings wedding commoners—I will happily consider the matter again. But until then, I will hear no more of it."

"But my lord…" Baeddan tried again.

Fflewddur cut him off with a wave of his hand. "No. You waste your breath, Baeddan. Save it for your next conversation with King Gweir about why I will not be making a second visit. Princess Rhelemon is as beautiful as a summer day and as bland as porridge. I'm sure you will find a more delicate way of phrasing that…"

* * *

Fflewddur's discontent only deepened with time. Although he became increasingly adept at the daily routines of governance, the expectations placed on a king were so at odds with his own nature that he constantly felt like a marsh bird on dry land—surviving, perhaps, but ever ill-at-ease.

Anwen sensed that Fflewddur was losing something of himself in his attempt to adapt. His typically buoyant demeanor seemed heavier, darker. His tall tales were fewer and farther between. The harp she had given him sat untouched for months at a time, gathering dust. It troubled her greatly. She wanted to see him succeed as king, but not at the cost of all vibrancy. A balance must be struck between duty and personal desires—between the kingly office and the man bearing that title.

She invited him out riding one pleasant evening in late summer, figuring it would do him good to escape the confines of the castle, and give them a chance to talk besides. He did tend to be more frank and open when rambling outdoors, she had noticed. The pair rode for a while in silence, taking pleasure in the slanting sun that washed all the land in golden light. Anwen watched the tension gradually ease from her son's shoulders. She waited until it was nearly gone before speaking.

"I have been meaning to say…" she began, "I am very impressed by the way you have taken to your role as king, Fflewddur. You have accomplished no small amount in just two years."

"Hmmm?" Fflewddur asked, shaking himself out of a half-trance. "Come again?"

Anwen smiled to herself. "I said, I am impressed by all that you have accomplished thus far as king."

"Oh. Why, thank you," Fflewddur replied, slightly confused as to why that topic had arisen—and wary of where the conversation might be headed.

"And yet… you seem dissatisfied… drained, even…" said Anwen. She looked over at Fflewddur to gauge his reaction. Her eyes were filled with kind concern.

"Oh, there is no need to worry—I am quite alright," Fflewddur replied, brushing her observation aside with a wave of his hand. "Fantastic even! Truth be told, I have been so full of vigor these past few months that I've needed to force myself to bed at night. I feel fresh as a spring leaf! Energetic as a honeybee!"

Anwen raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Listless as an overheated cat, is more like it. You have not been yourself of late. I seldom see you smile, let alone hear you laugh. Your meals go half-eaten. I cannot remember the last time you went hunting or hiking, though there have been perfect days for it. And you scarcely play your harp anymore. Now, I well recall warning you against shirking your duties for your music. I _never_ foresaw a day when I would suggest you do the opposite—and yet, here that day is." She shook her head in sad disbelief.

"Ah—yes, well—there never seems to be time for it anymore," Fflewddur explained. "I miss it, truly, but toying with a harp is hardly important compared to the hundred other tasks lined up each day."

"If the harp lifts your spirits and renews your energy, time playing it would be time well-spent," countered Anwen. "The measure of our days is short—far shorter than we would like, as you have seen first-hand. Carve out a portion for yourself, for the things you love. You will find time to finish the rest, and likely have more will to do so, besides."

Fflewddur's mouth twisted ruefully. "That… That feels so wrong-headed, though…" he said, for lack of a better way to describe the feeling. "Not at all the way a king _should_ act, even if he could. Ffynnon never squandered his hours on idle pastimes…" he added quietly, trailing off into silence.

"Ffynnon was a different man than you, with his own strengths and his own flaws," Anwen replied. "Do not sacrifice the best parts of who _you_ are in trying to match those of another. A poetic nature like yours is rare—and a gift if wisely used."

"How is that?" Fflewddur asked, confused. So often had he been reprimanded for his daydreams and flights of fancy that it never occurred to him they might have value beyond his own amusement.

"With imagination, you can see things that others overlook—possibilities, solutions, connections…" Anwen explained. "It grants you power to illuminate the beauty, joy, and love in this world; and _those_ are the things by which life transcends mere survival. True, a king must first and foremost attend to the basic needs of his people. Yet, a king who surpasses that will win his subjects' hearts and their deepest loyalty. Hold fast to the spirit that will help you become such a king."

Fflewddur was quiet for several moments while he pondered his mother's words. A poetic nature? Not merely the absent-minded dreamer so many others had scolded him for being? Was that poetry what Braith had seen in him; why she had first suggested he become a bard? Could that character still serve him well, now that life had led him on a different path? It was a hopeful thought—a tendril stirring deep within him, like a tiny seedling breaking through the soil.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Toward the end, this chapter contains a few direct quotes from "The Truthful Harp." Since this story ends right where that one begins, I wanted to stitch the two together with some of Lloyd Alexander's text.

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**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

The years swept by and, contrary to his fears, Fflewddur did settle in—more or less—to his role as king. His characteristic optimism and exuberance gradually resurfaced. Time resumed its usual pace, and his days no longer stretched on so tediously.

It struck him one day, as he sat in his Great Hall, just how much time had passed. It had been, what, nearly eight years since he had fully taken up the crown? They had been difficult years, some of them: there were rebellions in other cantrevs; crop failures; the gut-wrenching loss of his mother to illness during the previous winter; and the ongoing struggle to live up to a crown he neither wanted nor expected to wear in the first place. No wonder his memory had tried to swallow those years up whole. But there had been good times, too: meeting new comrades, including the boisterous and big-hearted King Smoit of Cantrev Cadiffor; an improbable romance between Baeddan and Delyth, and their subsequent wedding; the cyclical round of seasonal festivals that let people break free of humdrum routines…

The shouts of several cottagers' children broke his reverie. They came often to play in his Great Hall which, compared to their humble thatched homes, seemed a far more inspiring setting for heroic adventures. Fflewddur didn't mind; it brought some liveliness to the otherwise dreary castle. In fact, he sometimes joined their games when they needed a dragon, or ogre, or some other sufficiently monstrous villain to battle against. Baeddan certainly took issue with it, huffing and spluttering each time he stumbled over one of the children running underfoot. But he deferred to his king and bit his tongue, while silently keeping track of every scuff mark and skewed furnishing he would later need to set aright.

That particular day, a conquest of the Western Isles was at hand. The children had transformed the large table at the center of the Great Hall into a war ship, and hoisted one of Fflewddur's old rooster-emblazoned battle flags as a sail. With a twinge of heart, the king recognized one of the children as Braith's daughter: a girl of about five who was as freckled and strong-willed as her mother. Years ago, Fflewddur had returned from a campaign against rebellious cantrev lords in the south, crossed paths with Braith, and learned that she had been wed. She had seemed quite happy. Fflewddur had expressed his genuine well-wishes, and that was the last they had really spoken to each other, save for a passing greeting when she and her husband came to pay their annual taxes.

'_Ah, well_,' Fflewddur thought with a sigh. '_Time_ _flows on despite our best efforts to dam it or direct its course_…'

He missed Braith's friendship, but was glad she was content with her life. He only wished he were equally content with his. He had grown accustomed to kingship and even took a fair degree of pride in it, but still chafed at its constraints. Adapting to something was a far cry from embracing it…

"My crown's a grievous burden!" Fflewddur cried. "That is, it would be if I ever wore it," he added with a rueful glance at the slightly dented, unpolished golden circlet hanging from the arm of his throne. "But a Fflam is dutiful! My subjects need me to rule this vast kingdom with a firm hand and a watchful eye!"

He had been telling himself that for the past eight years, hoping that repetition would eventually make it ring true. Thus far, it had not; his legs still itched to ramble, and his mind still winged away regularly on the breeze of imagination. And in his heart of hearts, he still yearned to adventure as a wandering bard. Seeing Braith's daughter reminded him of the conversation he and Braith had long ago about his desire to follow that path. Fate had waylaid his dream, but never entirely banished it. Like a treasure put away for safekeeping, he had taken it out from time to time and turned it over in his mind, before wistfully tucking it away again. But why put it aside? Why shouldn't he steer his own course instead of letting himself be swept along by circumstance?

"Drat and blast!" Fflewddur muttered aloud, startling a few of the playing children. "I see no reason why I cannot be both a king _and_ a bard. A Fflam is eager! I'll be as great a bard as I am a king! I shall begin studying directly!"

The children, gathered around and atop their table-ship stared at him a moment, bemused. Then one boy raised his wooden sword in the air and let loose a cry, "A bard! A bard! King Fflewddur Flam the Bard!" The other children took up the cry in a joyous melee of cheers and jumping about. Grinning ear to ear, Fflewddur strode off to notify Baeddan of his new venture.

Baeddan did not take that news well. He attempted to maintain his usual composure, but the strain of repressed frustration turned him a rather beet-like shade of red.

"Your Majesty… please… be _reasonable_… We can ill afford to have you wandering off for indefinite lengths of time on a whim. It is troublesome enough when service to King Math calls you away. Why, during your most recent campaign, we were barely able to manage…"

"You managed very well!" Fflewddur reassured him with a smile. "Great Belin, the realm was in better shape when I returned than when I departed! All of the wrinkles were smoothed out and the wheels turning freely. Besides," he added, "you're forever complaining about how you manage half of the castle duties yourself as it is. And you seldom seem to approve of the way I handle the other half. This is the perfect opportunity for you to run things just as you see fit, old fellow! I should think you would be pleased."

Baeddan looked as though didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. He sought refuge in a neutral return to his argument. "We were fortunate that your last absence coincided with an unusually uneventful period, in which relatively few conflicts and complaints arose, and your subjects were preoccupied with the autumn harvest…"

"Then I shall keep my ramblings to those times of year," Fflewddur said with confidence. "A Fflam is accommodating, after all. I would hate to trouble you on my account. Yes," he went on, "that is a fine solution, Baeddan. I am so glad you thought of it."

At that point, Baeddan seemed ready to burst into tears. "But… but Your Majesty…" he fumbled helplessly. "It… It… It simply isn't _done_…"

"There is a first time for everything, is there not?" Fflewddur replied cheerily. "And if I manage to do it, then it _will_ have been done and you can put that particular worry about precedent out of your mind."

And so, Fflewddur dug out the harp he had regretfully set aside years before and began practicing in earnest. He carried the instrument with him wherever he went, until it was nearly as much a part of him as an arm or leg. During councils and diplomatic meetings, he plucked at invisible strings while half-listening to the business at hand. When he did have the opportunity to play, he did so ceaselessly, until his fingers blistered and more than a few servants stuffed wool in their ears to gain a few moments of quiet. Delyth, at least, was unfailingly encouraging. She taught Fflewddur all of the old folk tunes she knew, and would hum along as she went about her work.

Fflewddur also attacked his non-musical studies with a will. He raided Baeddan's shelves for the relevant tomes of ancient lore that the bardic exams would cover. Those, he pored over in every spare moment he could glean. Before long, they were piled up by his bedside, stacked around his throne, and generally scattered throughout the castle. It was all Baeddan could do to keep the scholarly disarray in check. The chief steward found himself spending more and more time protectively gathering up his precious tomes and returning them to their proper shelves, only to have them pulled out once again when Fflewddur needed to re-read a particular passage or cross-reference an event mentioned in multiple texts.

It was a full year before the king fancied himself ready to stand before the High Council of Bards and ask to be ranked among their number. Excitement mingled with nervous anticipation as he gathered supplies for the journey and made ready to set out. Baeddan, rather grudgingly, had issued a proclamation announcing the king's departure to Caer Dathyl and his endeavor to become a bard. Hearing that intriguing news, all of Fflewddur's subjects who could spare the time gathered to cheer him on, to wave farewell, and to wish him good speed. The sight bolstered Fflewddur's spirit; small though his kingdom was, the hearts of his people were great.

Fflewddur swung up onto his charger, readjusted the harp slung upon his back, and rode forth from the castle courtyard. As he reached the gates, he turned back for a final glance at the throng of well-wishers. He saw Cadwallon—ever the sturdy warrior— standing with legs wide and arms folded across his chest, but with a broad, proud grin on his face. Delyth was alternately dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief and waving it vigorously in farewell. Even Baeddan seemed caught up in the celebratory mood—the creases between his brows were only a third as deep as usual, and there was even the flicker of a smile about his lips. Then, just before Fflewddur turned away, he spotted the most heartening sight of all: standing at the front of the crowd was Braith, wearing a smile so bright and warm that it rivaled the sun. She waved encouragingly to him. And with that, head and heart both high, Fflewddur cantered off, westward to Caer Dathyl and wherever destiny would lead him.

* * *

**The End  
**(Or beginning, as it were...)


End file.
